


Altered States

by Deep_South



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Body Exploration, Bodyswap, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, MKUltra, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Sexually Confident Steve Harrington, Size Kink, Soft Billy Hargrove, Steve Harrington and The Return of the King, Steve has a big dick I don't make the rules, learning about each other the strange way
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2019-09-20 00:57:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 78,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17012499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deep_South/pseuds/Deep_South
Summary: Steve:Steve blinked rapidly down at his—the—body as he tried not to panic, studying the hard thick lines of muscle woven over the rib cage and the way they culminated into a low ‘V’ as they sharply tapered at the top of the pelvis and disappeared beneath the sheet. Even at the foreign angle, Steve could recognize the familiar shape of the chest. He’d stolen enough glances at it over the last few months to know Billy Hargrove’s body when he saw it. Billy Hargrove’s body—he was in Billy Hargrove’sbody.Billy:Steve Harrington, Pretty Boy, Steve-Fucking-Harrington, King Steve: The problem that had a name, many of them.  The problem that had been consuming Billy's every waking moment so completely that it had finally swallowed him whole—apparently.  Billy looked down at Steve’s hands on the steering wheel, his longlongfingers and the smooth ridged bumps of his knuckles and shivered as he swallowed. He was sofucked.(The body swap AU that no one asked for, but here it is anyway.)





	1. Displacement

**Author's Note:**

> (Apparently it's an unofficial 'Stranger Things' Body Swap Day... Must be something in the water!?)  
> I have a lot of this written already, but likely want to play around with the middle part. It depends on what people want, really. This all started back in July(?) with a conversation that ended with a speculation on what body swap sex would be like and/or the notion of Steve pining over Billy and then ending up inside him--literally. And what was supposed to be a random PWP turned into whatever this is. Because brevity has never been my strong suit. :0) *Special thanks to beautyinchains for being a sound board and for helping pick the music...:)

It all started at a ‘rager’ in the woods—just another party thrown on a Thursday in a town too small to say no. Steve had tried, his protests increasing exponentially when he saw which _part_ of the forest he was expected to drink stolen cases of gas station beer in. A layer of road dust from the dirt path leading up the backway in had settled over the sign’s metallic sheen, but Steve didn’t need to make out all the letters to know they spelled out “Hawkins Power and Light” beneath the grime. Steve’s blood grew cold, his extremities instantly numbing at the sight of the logo peeking through. The lab had been shut down—allegedly, and as far as they knew he was just another dumb teenage kid—allegedly. But Steve was smart enough to know that none of them should be loitering around the perimeters of hell after dark voluntarily altering their states with cheap booze. Steve knew they all needed to get out _now_ , because he might have hunted monsters before, sure, but not when he was this unprepared. 

The lighting in the woods wasn’t ideal. The canopy of trees blocked out what was already a new moon night, leaving nothing but a dark shadow of a path. Steve was somewhere along the dirt road feeling for his car in the dark when the numbness in his arms began to tingle, spreading outwards from his chest. And just like that, Steve suddenly _knew_ he was going to die—he was _sure_ of it. He was dying, his body helpfully informed him, _right now_. A slow creeping blurring of his vision began to take hold, something static and white. He couldn’t breathe, and the tightness in his chest pitched him forward, keeling him over onto his knees in the dirt while he choked on the air. 

The ground under his knees was cold and wet, and then suddenly someone’s hands were on him, warm and firm against his shoulder blade and neck. A stripe of burgundy fabric flashed into his peripheral vision, the scent of the air taking on undercurrents of smoke and leather. Billy Hargrove’s voice was in his ear. Steve could identify the low gravel sound of it, even though he was speaking in a tone Steve had never heard from Billy before, something soothing and soft. 

“Hey, Harrington, you’re having a panic attack, OK? You’re OK.”

Steve nodded, the spinal column in his neck rolling against Billy’s steady palm. Steve knew he was having a panic attack; it wasn’t his first. That still didn’t mean he wasn’t _dying_ though. He must tell Billy that because Billy was still talking, still _there_. 

“You’re not dying, Harrington. That’s panic attack 101. It just feels like you are. Just breathe for me, OK?”

Steve had no idea why Billy was even there, being _nice_ , while talking and touching him through a panic attack outside the mouth of hell like some kind of fallen death-angel. But in some odd way it seemed fitting, like Steve had seen Billy three months ago in a parking lot in September and had just known that his would be the last face Steve would see before he died one day. 

It’s the last thing he remembers before the world goes dark. 

 

*******

The next morning, Steve woke up _sore_. Not the lingering aching remnants of dehydration and a hangover sore, but like the entirety of his body had been thrown into highway traffic. His chest _throbbed_. Some sharp pain had rooted itself in his right knee and all the bones down the entire left side of his body felt unhinged and loose. He groaned into the pain—and froze. The sound was oddly foreign, lower than he was used to with a heavier feeling of vibration in his throat. Once his eyes snapped open, the cold confusing terror only increased. He was in a room, but it wasn’t his. Steve struggled to see through the dim shadows of the space, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. The sight that began to take form before him provided way more questions than answers. The room was odd, over-used and yet too empty. If he hadn’t been so unnerved to be in it, he might have felt a little sorry for the room itself. There was just something off about it—the room lived in, but with an impersonal transient feel—the whole interior too worn and temporary to feel like a home, but too clean to be any sort of suburban drug den. 

The main (and only) piece of “furniture” that Steve could make out in the dark was the mattress he was on. The makeshift bed, void of a frame or even a box spring, was low to the ground. At some point, the mattress had been pressed up at a vague angle into the corner, like the person who usually slept in it had wanted to maximize the amount of solid walls that could possibly touch it—an odd detail Steve only noticed at all because he had done the same thing with his own bed. But that was only after years of sleeping open and in the center of his room followed by learning that the world contained monsters, and that thought did not make him feel any more comfortable about being wherever he was now. Steve shifted to push himself up from the bed and another jolt of pain pinged through him. He was sort of afraid to look down, to see what the fuck had happened to his torso last night. But he’d learned the hard way recently that not looking won’t make it not true, so he does. 

When he finally worked up the courage to look down, his heart stopped. Or rather, whosever heart it was stops, because _this_ was not his body. _‘What the fuck!?’_ Steve blinked rapidly down at his—the—body as he tried not to panic, studying the hard thick lines of muscle woven over the rib cage and the way they culminated into a low V as they sharply tapered at the top of the pelvis and disappeared beneath the sheet. Even at the foreign angle, Steve could recognize the familiar shape of the chest. He’d stolen enough glances at it over the last few months to know Billy Hargrove’s body when he saw it. Billy Hargrove’s body—he was in Billy Hargrove’s _body_. The rising tingling feeling of panic was creeping back in again. But there were too many other emotions present, predominantly the shock and the still pulsing currents of pain, which kept the spark of a true attack from catching fire. The pain was considerable, almost intolerable by Steve’s standards. _What in the world had happened to Billy’s body anyway?_ Steve knew Billy was enough of a hot-headed asshole to get into fights, but seriously, how bad does a fight need to get before you can just call it? 

Steve tried to focus on the more important point at the moment though—the how, what, where, _whatthefuck_ of it side of things, searching his mind for memories of the previous night. All the snippets he could recall were hazy, fragmented, like the evening was all just an old movie he’d seen once. But he _could_ recall showing up at the party in the woods, a few dozens of the senior class gathered around a fire. Billy had been there; he was sure of that. Steve had seen Billy behind the firepit the moment Steve had entered the clearing, standing casual across the flames and refracting the light off all the pieces of his metal and the pupils of his eyes. He’d looked free and wild, throwing back beer by a fire in the forest, his Adam’s apple moving and swallowing behind the collar of his leather jacket. Steve had taken one look at the wicked, untouchable possibilities of Billy’s violent beauty and had fled straight back into the trees—right into the outer ridges of The Lab. And then…nothing. He had no idea how he had gotten here after, not only in someone else’s skin, but at all. 

The idea was a terrifying one—that he had lost time, lost his own body, and that The Lab probably had something, if not everything, to do with it. And yet, the notion that this was Lab-related was also in some small part comforting. If this was the Lab’s doing, then there might be a way to fix it. Steve had faced, maybe not stranger things than this, but he’d faced strange enough shit to have hope that this was fixable. He just needed to ‘be’ Billy Hargrove until he could get to school and find him, hopefully in Steve’s body. _And how weird was it that somehow Billy inhabiting his body was suddenly the ‘best’ case scenario?_ But still, that was the only plan Steve seemed to have right now, so he’ll do it. He’d be Billy Hargrove. How hard could that be? 

Resolved, Steve fought through the bitter sharp ache of his bones to pull himself out of the bed. By the time he had managed to stand up, he was panting from the effort, but the shock had settled in just enough to dull some of the pain. A cool chill sat heavy in the air, which should have made Steve feel colder than he did. Billy’s body apparently ran hot, possibly even more so when covered in injuries as it worked overtime to heal. Steve mapped his hands over Billy’s torso. His skin was tender over the hard plates of muscle, swollen from the bruising in a way that made it softer to touch. Despite the insane severity of the situation, Steve couldn’t help but feel a twinge of a different sort of ache at the firm lines beneath his fingers, the kind that transcended mere physiology of the body and had apparently traveled along with Steve as an unshakable part of his consciousness. His own mind had traced over the lingering phantom lines of Billy’s frame so often by this point that finally touching them felt more familiar than foreign. The temptation was there, the urge to travel his hands lower to the places he had only ever been able to flicker over for a quick beat in the showers, or those few times that Billy’s hands had slipped when swapping the towel around his waist for the ever-too-tight denim of his jeans. He couldn’t help _looking_ at the very least. And yeah, Steve confirmed with a low groan ripped straight from somewhere deep in Billy’s chest, Billy was fucking perfect _everywhere_. Steve wondered idly if Billy ever got hard looking at himself; it honestly wouldn’t surprise him. It also probably shouldn’t surprise him that Billy apparently sleeps naked, but it does. He wasn’t sure he _wanted_ to know that about Billy either; He already thought about the guy at night enough as it was. 

The room was still rather dark, but Steve managed to stumble forward enough to find a light switch and a small analogue clock that read 6:10, which Steve deduced meant AM judging by the slow filtering of light coming up from the horizon. The switch on the wall triggered an old lamp that had been set on the floor by the bed. The lamp was about as high up from the ground as the mattress, which was to say, not much. Its small circled ratio of light filled the room with an odd casting of dull light and shadows that made the bruising mottled all over Billy’s body turn almost black, like his skin was slowly being consumed by the upside-down. 

Steve scanned the room again quickly. Even with the low light, the room looked almost empty. Only a small collection of open boxes along with a duffle bag lined the wall opposite the bed, all aligned in a neatly ordered row. Steve hobbled over to shuffle through them. He catalogued the contents as he went, fascinated by the notion that he was touching Billy’s things. The fascination grew when the contents proved to be both entirely expected, and yet surprisingly unexpected, both on account of how utterly mundane everything was. The first of the boxes contained a mix of records and tapes; the second a selection of linens (an extra set of sheets and two folded towels) placed carefully on top of a cache of water, first aid supplies, and some sort of protein bars; the third box revealed an assortment of hair and body products in an array of gels and sprays; and the duffle was packed with what appeared to be clean and folded clothes. The contents were common enough for a teenage boy—at least for one who frequently pumped iron, blasted metal, and got into fights—but the presentation—that all the possessions were still tucked away tightly into carefully divided boxes—just…wasn’t. Steve looked around the rest of the room. There was nothing in the closet and no other furniture in sight apart from the bed and a mirror that appeared fixed to the back of the door like it might have come with the house. It was as if Billy had just moved to Hawkins yesterday rather than months ago. Considering his stuff (which seemed to contain absolutely nothing that could actually be labeled _personal_ ) apparently fit into only three boxes, and would take all of fifteen minutes tops to unpack, that was actually an impressive amount of laziness or apathy, Steve wasn’t sure which. But he did manage to dig through and find a pair of old sweatpants and a soft t-shirt, so he threw them on to go investigate the house. 

The house outside Billy’s bedroom door was much more homey, or at least unpacked, although the décor style seemed cheap and pieced together by a crochet-happy hand that reminded him a bit of Mrs. Henderson. Sounds of breakfast filtered into the hall from the kitchen, a clinking of utensils and the smell of coffee, the latter of which Steve needed desperately. Seeing as this was Billy’s house and he was apparently Billy, Steve figured it would be weirder if he _didn’t_ put in an appearance in the kitchen, so he followed the sounds into the room. Max was already at the table, eating cereal in a pair of He-Man pajamas across from a compact military-looking man Steve assumed must be Billy’s father. Steve knew Billy was kind of a dick most of the time, but figured he surely couldn’t be _all_ the time, so as Steve shuffled in to mainline for the coffee, he mumbled out the best greeting he could muster pre-caffeinated: “Morning, Max. Morning, Dad.” 

The room seemed to immediately still, Max’s spoon clanking against the ceramic of the bowl in front of her. Steve turned to them, confused. “What?”

Max eyed him warily, which was actually an impressive feat considering she kept her mouth hung open in a surprised ‘O’. Steve had just enough time to think Billy must _really_ be a dick if simply saying ‘good morning’ shocked his family, before the man at the table cut into the silence in a strangely cold tone. “Billy, let’s talk outside for a moment.”

Steve turned away from Max to look at the man, thoroughly confused as to why they couldn’t just talk in the kitchen where they both already were. The man sat watching him with eyes as cold and calm as his voice, waiting for something. Steve returned the gaze, looking directly back into his eyes to try and read them, trying to figure out once again what the fuck was happening and failing. “Umm Ok. Yeah sure.” Steve had no idea what “outside” actually meant, so he waited for the man to stiffly rise and lead the way. Steve followed him into the adjoining living room. 

Steve still failed to see how the living room was anymore “outside” than the kitchen, but whatever. He could play along. Steve glanced around the room, noting how the carpet was old but well-vacuumed, the walls yellowed with smoke but void of dust. A family portrait hung above the TV next to a wooden cross, both of which looked cheaply produced, but similarly well-cared for. Steve had a hard time imagining Billy ever posing for a family photo, which was probably the reason why he wasn’t in it. 

He turned back to the man in the room. Everything, from his hair cut to the style of his shirt was exactly the same as it was in the photo. A man of consistency. Nothing about Steve’s father had ever been consistent. Billy’s father, however, seemed to be a man of routine and patterns. The man hadn’t said anything else yet, so he was obviously expecting Billy to say something first. 

Steve still had no idea what the guy wanted to talk about, so he decided to play it safe and keep all the avenues open: “So, what’s up, dad?”

The question had barely made it out of Steve’s mouth before he found himself suddenly shoved hard into the wall behind him. The shock of the movement short-circuited his brain for a moment as he struggled to figure out what had happened. Steve slowly registered the unexpected presence of the other man on top of him. Like Billy, Billy’s father had plenty of power and muscle concealed beneath his clothes. Steve could feel them taught against his, well, Billy’s, body. The position was one of pure dominance on the precipice of overt aggression. It was one that Steve knew well, ironically thanks to Billy, who had had him pinned similarly before. The tone of this was different, however. Steve didn’t get that same rush of desire he did whenever Billy did it, on the court or in the lockers; Billy’s warm breath panting against his pulse as he warned him to _plant his feet,_ Steve always chickening out on the urge to push back just as hard against Billy’s wicked, panting mouth with his tongue. No, whatever this was was too menacing and casual for it to be sexual. Which, considering Steve was inside the man’s son’s body, was probably for the best. 

Billy and his father might share a similar coiled promise of power along with the same hue of color in their eyes, but that was where the resemblance between them drew a hard, conclusive line. Despite whatever façade of malice Billy liked to build up like steel walls around himself, Steve had never once actually felt threatened or endangered around him. Even the one outlier of a fight, when Billy had come at him in a frenzy of flying fists, it hadn’t felt any more cruel and calculated than that time with Johnathan, just something that had built up too long and snapped—a byproduct of high octane emotions and entropy. 

But Billy’s father, Steve decided, was terrifying up close in a way that was nothing like his son. The man’s eyes looked down at him, a glinting brand of steel, yet hollow and calm, while the thick muscle of his forearm crushed into Steve’s throat, cutting off the air. Steve tried to gasp in what oxygen he could around it, but his torso was _burning_. 

“What’s up?” Billy’s father repeated in an incredulous and mocking tone. 

Steve had no idea what the guy wanted from him. And as potentially irrational as it was, Steve felt a quick wave of anger at Billy surge through him for doing whatever shit he had obviously done—for pissing his father off and leaving Steve to deal with it. To be fair, Billy likely hadn’t known Steve would be the one to take the fallout. But still, Billy had obviously done something recently that had to have been pretty serious to make his father this angry. Considering the wild legends about the shit Billy got up to around the town, Steve couldn’t even begin to guess at what that was—probably whatever reckless stunt or psychotic fight he’d gotten into that had shredded up his body. Steve didn’t know what that was though, which meant he also didn’t have a response for the guy. And yet, he wasn’t sure if that even mattered at this point, since he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs to answer anyway. 

Billy’s father spoke low, not quiet, but hard, slow, and deliberate. “Did our talk not get through to you last night? Are you that stupid? That useless?” 

Steve flinched back from the sheer force of the man’s tone. The words stung a little bit even though they weren’t even about *him*. The hit that came next stung more though, a sharp quick cut that landed on the slant of his jaw in a half-way combo between a punch and a slap. The follow-up to the ribs was just plain _unnecessary_ , inflaming the already present pain throbbing through his torso to a new height. 

Steve grit his teeth against it as the confusion that had been swirling around inside him turned to an indignant anger. Steve was about _this_ close to laying the man out. All his monster hunting skills acquired over the last year tingled in his veins enticing him to just rip the threat apart. But he’d been Billy for all of thirty minutes. And Steve might not know much about the intrinsic code of body-swapping, but he was pretty sure that getting the body you were inhabiting arrested for homicide wasn’t cool. So he did the only thing he could think of, passively forcing past the choke hold to apologize. “Yes, you’re right. I’m sorry.” 

“You’re sorry…” Billy’s father repeated again, trailing off like he was waiting for something as he grabbed hold of Billy’s face, digging his fingers deeper into the new bruise forming along the jawline. Steve scanned the guy’s face and then the room, looking around frantically for some sort of clue. Instead his eyes found Max, who had crept out of the kitchen on the way back to her room. Max met his eyes, and, peering over at him from behind Neil’s shoulder, mouthed, “Sir,” looking at Steve like he— _Billy_ —had lost his god damn mind. 

Steve takes it. “Sir!” he emphasized quickly. “I’m sorry, _Sir_.” 

The pressure on his jaw yielded slightly. Steve got the uncomfortable sensation that this, whatever it was, wasn’t really over. But it seemed to be at least winding down temporarily when Billy’s father says, “Take Max to school,” like that was some sort of _order_ and then walked back into the kitchen. 

_Holy Shit._ Steve stumbled his way back to Billy’s room, relying a bit on the wall to get him there. He was still in need of caffeine, only riding through on pure, bewildered adrenaline. He grabbed blindly at a pair of jeans in Billy’s duffel, coming up with a worn and ripped material that Steve recognized as his second favorite pair that Billy owned and put them on. He didn’t have the time or the interest at the moment to deal with Billy’s hair, so after finding a tie in the box of toiletries, he pulled it back into a sloppy bun that should be fine. It made Billy look that much better anyway to put the strong cut of his jaw on display. Steve didn’t know what to do about the rapidly rising swell of his lip from the sucker punch though. But he’d seen Billy come to school with bruises enough times that one more shouldn’t be all that suspicious. 

And that’s when it hits him. He’d seen Billy come to school with bruises— _all the time_. He had always just figured they had come from guys his own age. Hell, he had been one of those guys back in October, even if Billy had won the fight. But the undercurrent of old violence that still lingered in the house coiled ill in his stomach. He wasn’t so sure now. He wasn’t so sure about a lot of things anymore. The poorly fortified bed in an impersonal room, the still-packed boxes, and the clean military fold of his clothes—none of it exactly screamed “Billy,” who was a constant excess of personality and chaos. Steve looked hard into the mirror at the familiar lines of Billy’s face—marred by the faded and fresh injuries of skin, and a weary exhaustion set deep around his eyes that Steve could only now see when up this close—and felt suddenly sick. He didn’t know Billy Hargrove at all.


	2. Advance

The blue Camaro was in the driveway when Steve followed Max outside the house, so whoever had been driving Billy’s body last night had also driven his car. The keys were fortunately still in the pocket of the leather jacket Steve had found in the front closet, so Steve headed right towards it, circling around the front to unlock Max’s side first. He hadn’t said anything to her yet; he didn’t know what to say. All the things that Steve has on the tip of his tongue are questions that Billy would never ask, because Billy would already know what happens in that house. It’s _his_. Max wasn’t trying to talk to him either though, so the morning silence between them must be normal enough. The quiet followed them all the way through the drive. It set Steve on edge with a nervous energy he wasn’t used to—especially around Max. But unwelcomed quiet will kind of do that to a person. When Steve pulled in to the middle school loop, Max gave him another weary once-over with her eyes and got out. For a moment before she shut the door, it almost looked like she was going to say something after all. Steve could tell she wanted to at least from the way she pursed her lips. But then the moment passed—the soft collision of the door the only thing to cut through the sound barrier before she disappeared into the main building. 

The high school was only two streets over, so Steve ended up there early—pulled the Camaro into the lot, parked, and then just waited for the surreal moment of ‘contact’ when the burgundy tint of his car pulled right up beside him. Steve watched with a horrified curiosity as his own body got out of the car. Steve noted that he looked taller from this angle, his body standing straighter than it usually did when he was in control of it, but with a menacing sort of twist around the mouth that Steve was pretty sure he has never made before. It was a truly uncanny and chilling experience, made somehow worse by the fact that Billy (or at least hopefully Billy) hadn’t done his hair either. It’s ridiculous, and so far off the mark of the true severity of the situation, but he leads with that—jumping right out of the Camaro and snapping, “What did you do to my hair?!”

Steve could read the successions of emotions that crossover his face easily enough—relief, surprise, and then alarm—because it was *his* face. And then in a voice that was definitely also his, but somehow took on a cadence pattern that made it sound a little bit like Billy too, shot back, “What did I do to your hair? What did you do to my _face_ , Harrington?” 

The building challenge of anger and aggression underlying the question worked just fine for Steve. He needed it too—had felt the tension of this situation building all morning. Steve met the challenge, pressing Billy’s body forward away from the car to advance on his own. “What did *I* do?!?” 

“To my face.” Billy repeated, and Steve could taste the tension rise to the back of his teeth. 

“I didn’t do anything! Your father just went crazy on me, well _you_ , this morning.”

And just like that the tension radiating from Billy faltered, his voice taking on an eerily neutral tone. “What did he do.”

Without Billy’s indignant fire to fuel him on, Steve dropped his shoulders, fully aware that it wasn’t like he was really about to punch *himself* in the face anyway. He still felt jumpy though, coursing with adrenaline, but he held up his palms as an offer of peace and then pointed to the swollen lip. “Hit me—you—across the face. Got a pretty good punch in to the gut as well.”

“Oh.” Billy actually looked _relieved_ by that. Steve can tell because the expression was on his own fucking face and he knows his face pretty well. He knew what relief looked like on him.  
And suddenly the feelings of anger and frustration were right back with him. 

“Oh? What, as in ‘Oh that’s it’?! That shit _hurt_ , Hargrove.” Steve studied Billy from inside his body for a moment, trying to make sense of it as that former growing suspicion crept back up on him. “Wait, how often does he do that… to you? And how much worse can it get?!”

Billy gave a non-committal little shrug of his shoulders, which told Steve everything he needed to know. Steve thought of the bruises on Billy’s body, the deep angry expanse of them, and his earlier suspicions as to their origins. “Did he do _this_ to you?” Steve asked cautiously, gesturing a vague hand down Billy’s torso. 

“That’s really none of your concern, Harrington.”

“Yeah, well that’s where you’re wrong. Seeing as I’m in your fucking body until we find a way to fix this, I’d say it’s very much my _concern_. And yours too. It seems kind of important to know what happened so that I can, you know, avoid it as best I can so this morning doesn’t happen again.” Billy looked down at the ground, deliberately not looking at Steve, but Steve’s body has always been taller so it wasn’t all that evasive of a move. Steve, from his now shorter vantage point, could still see his eyes. Billy wasn’t getting out of this conversation. “You really have to call your father _‘sir’_? Like all the time?”

Billy seemed to realize that Steve was right, shoulders deflating in defeat. “Yes. I do. And, yeah, you do too now, or for now, or, whatever. Neil is a big fan of respect. Don’t ever look him in the eye either, not directly. But don’t look down. Just try to focus on his ear—preferably the left so he doesn’t notice a change or anything. When in doubt, just apologize, but make sure you sound like you mean it. It’s not always clear what he’s angry about. This morning though. I need more details. Tell me what happened.”

Steve does.

“Jesus. You called him ‘ _dad_ ’?!” 

“Well he * _is_ * your dad.”

Billy looked a little sick. He took a deep breath, bringing Steve’s long fingers up to his temple to message it. Steve watched him do it, noting with a wry kind of horror that he’s never seen himself look more like his mother. 

“Ok,” Billy said after another moment of deep breathing, the technique oddly, therapeutically clinical and practiced. “So you can’t just go out to the kitchen in sweats or pajamas and stuff. Neil finds that really disrespectful. Hopefully we’ll find a way out of this before tomorrow, but if not, get showered and dressed first.”

“Max was in pajamas.”

“Yeah, well. It’s only disrespectful when _*I*_ do it. I strongly recommend getting up at five to use the shower first. And then, well, I’m expected to make coffee. That’s probably what he was really angry about, since I’m assuming you didn’t do that.”

Steve balked at that, just a little. “Ok. What else are you ‘expected’ to do?”

Billy ignored the tone, or at least let it slide. “Take Max to school; pick her up. She’s only allowed to go to the arcade three times a week, and she’s already been twice so you have to tell her ‘no’ after today. And she can’t go out after eight—ever. Not my rules. I don’t give a fuck, but you need to enforce them anyway. Last time I caved and gave into her about that is what got me that freshest layer of bruising that you seem to be kind of a bitch about handling by the way. Seriously, stand up straight; I have a reputation at this school you know.” 

Steve scowled at him and opened his mouth to tell Billy to fuck off because this shit _hurt_. But he immediately shut it again when he realized Billy knew that. That this was Billy’s body and his life and that Billy has apparently been walking around with this bone-deep ache under his shirt all week and Steve—nobody—had had any idea. Steve was having a hard-enough time standing up with it, and Billy had taken point during Wednesday’s home game without missing a shot. Billy didn’t just know pain, he was intimately familiar with it enough to ignore it, or at least to live with it. The sickness that had coiled inside him earlier was back again, coupled with the repeated affirmation on how little Steve actually knew about the guy who he has been blindly, and kind of self-loathingly, pining over for _months_. 

Forcing himself to return to the present moment, Steve focused back in on Billy’s verbal listing. “…dishes, trash. I’m usually the one to cook Max dinner, but luckily for you Susan is on a cooking kick this week.” Billy paused then, obviously uncomfortable as he shuffled Steve’s sneaker against the asphalt. “If another run-in with Neil ends up being unavoidable, don’t fight him on it; don’t talk back. And don’t make any…” Billy flushed, embarrassed, cleared his throat. “Don’t make any noise when he…. He hates that. Thinks it’s a sign of weakness.”

Steve definitely wanted to protest that, and opened Billy’s mouth to do so, but Billy cut him off. “Please, Steve. Just take it. It will be so much worse if you don’t. I do want back in my body eventually.”

The vulnerability and truth in his voice was so unexpected that Steve nodded, looking at Billy in resolved agreement, sympathy shining through the blue irises. Billy saw the look and scowled. “And for fucks sake. Never make that face with _*my_ face ever again. That expression only works with these ridiculous Bambi eyes of yours and I can put up with a lot of shit, Harrington, but you turning me into some sappy, emotional woodland creature is not going to be one of them.” 

Steve rolled his eyes instead at that, wondering if Billy could still see Steve in the motion even though they were his own eyes that he was looking into. Billy quickly changed the topic, throwing the intimate tell-all onto Steve. “So, anything I need to know about you and your folks? They didn’t seem to be there this morning. What are they like?”

“Oh.” It hadn’t even dawned on Steve to tell Billy about his parents. There wasn’t much he needed to know. “They aren’t around much. Actually, make that ever. It’s just me in the house until at least late April. They don’t like the weather in Indiana in the winter.” 

Billy obviously had no idea what to do with that. “Ummm, Okay. You really live in that huge house in the middle of the woods _by yourself_?”

It was Steve’s turn to shrug at that, and he does. 

Billy couldn’t seem to let it go though. Steve would have assumed from the barest flickers of Billy’s home life he’d gathered so far, that Billy might consider Steve’s vacant castle to be yet another privileged dream. So he was surprised when Billy cocked his head to study him, throwing something that looked a lot like that ‘sympathy’ thing he hated so much back at Steve. “Doesn’t that get, I don’t know, kind of freaky? Or lonely or something? I mean, no offense, but your place is kind of creepy. There’s like, nothing else around it. It’s definitely some gothic novel type shit.”

“It’s fine,” Steve replied shortly. And yet, it wasn’t. Because Billy was right. His house, surrounded by nothing but glass and the trees, terrified him, at least at night. And Billy had been kind of brutally honest with him and suddenly Steve felt like he kind of owed it to Billy to be honest right back. “No, you’re right. It’s really not that great to live there alone—at all. But…” Steve trailed off, because, ‘but what?’ It wasn’t like he had any choice in the matter, any more than Billy had any sort of agency over whatever went on inside his house. Billy at least seemed to understand that and let it drop. 

An uncomfortable moment of silence stretched between them before Billy finally asked, “So what are we going to do?”

Steve started to answer that they obviously were going to go to Hopper, and then the lab, round up a bunch of covert government scientists and demand to be switched back—obviously. Only Billy didn’t actually know anything about that fun little side of Hawkins. The hope that Steve has been riding on wasn’t something Billy had any knowledge of at all—he likely has had no run-ins with supernatural alien-world sciences _ever_. “Wait. How are you so calm about this? Shouldn’t you be more freaked out by what’s happening?!”

“You don’t seem that freaked out either,” Billy pointed out. Steve waved that off, waiting for an answer. He *knew* the reasons why he wasn’t, he wanted to know Billy’s. “Honestly… I’m not entirely sure this is even happening. I’m kind of partially working off the idea that I might be crazy. Or that Neil finally hit me a little too hard and this is a sort of head trauma thing—or a coma. I could be in a coma.” Billy shrugged, like he wouldn’t particularly care if that were in fact true. “Either way, I’m about 80 percent certain you’re not even here or real right now.” 

“Great.” 

“Sorry, Harrington. But it makes the most sense.”

“In what world does it make the most sense that if you *were* in a coma, that your subconscious would put you inside *my* body?” Billy actually _blushed_ at that. Which might be as weird as the whole situation itself. “What?”

Billy shook his head, the ridges of his cheeks still pink as Billy avoided looking at him again. “Nothing.” 

Billy was saved by the shrill ring of the second bell, effectively reminding them both that while they’ve been wrapped up in their own little Roswellian drama, the people still in their right bodies where rushing about the parking lot and filing into the school. “So do we…I don’t know. Go in there?” Billy asked, looking kind of lost. 

“What? No!”

“Why not?”

Steve could think of an infinite number of reasons why not. For whatever reason though, he leads with, “I have a bio test today.”

“Yeah? You want me to pass it for you? Or would that look too suspicious.”

“I’m passing biology just fine. And you don’t even take bio.”

“Because I already took it back in Cali. Besides, it’s biology. What don’t you think I know about biology?” Billy teased, voice lascivious and wry and he _winked_. 

Steve rolled his eyes back at him. “You’re not nearly as cute as you think you are when you do that.”

“Yeah, well then that’s your own face’s fault, Harrington. I’m working with what I got here.”

“Yeah, OK, which brings me to the real point that there’s apparently stuff neither of us knows about biology. Like how it’s possible that we fucking _changed bodies_! Maybe we should, I don’t know, be prioritizing *that* right now.”

“I thought we didn’t have any idea of what to do about that.”

“You don’t. But I do.” Steve stepped back, opened the Camaro’s door on the driver’s side and slid back in. “Get in the car.”

“You’re not driving my car, Harrington.”

Billy wasn’t nearly as menacing from inside Steve’s body, so Steve didn’t yield. “Pretty sure until we switch back, it’s *my* car, _‘Harrington’_. Besides, do you really want the school to see *you* letting *me* drive your car? And I already drove your car,” he added helpfully. “That’s how it got here.” There was something delightful about rendering Billy speechless—about making him concede to Steve’s point. He doesn’t do it verbally, but he does shut his mouth and slide into the passenger seat of the car. 

Steve started the engine, savoring the vibrational roar of the motor in a way he hadn’t been able to that morning. Technically the BMW had a nicer engine, but there was something wild about the ostentatious growl of Billy’s motor that quickened his pulse, much like the brash personality of its owner did. He kept the clutch in neutral for a moment, however, waiting. “Buckle your seat belt.”

Billy raised an eyebrow at him. “Are you serious?”

“Absolutely. That’s *my* body, so buckle up.” 

Billy scowled again, but does it. “This isn’t inspiring much confidence in your driving abilities.”

Steve tried to keep his voice light, enjoying the fragile banter they’d fallen into. “Hey, I’m an excellent driver. That body’s just irreplaceable.”

Billy mumbled something that sounded a lot like, ‘Yeah. it is.’ But the tone of whatever he had murmured sounded way too earnest for it to have been *that*, so Steve has to write it off as a sort of wishful thinking. 

Billy was being unusually quiet, so Steve focused on the road, the blur of the Indiana skyline this time of year always fading into a dull blend of browns beneath an under-saturated sky. Billy kept his car well cared for and the gears shifted smoothly beneath Steve’s palm as he accelerated the landscape into a frenzy of grey. Despite the bleak late November weather, driving the Camaro was fucking fantastic. Steve took his hand off the gear shift to press at the tape deck until the music he had put in earlier while waiting in the lot filtered through the speakers. That, at least, got Billy’s attention.

“Oh god, _Journey_!? I thought you were supposed to be me.”

“Yeah, and you’re such a chivalric gentleman that of course you let *me* pick the music.” Billy looked like he was about to protest again and Steve just couldn’t help but push him a little. “Not to mention, it’s your tape, Hargrove. It’s not like I packed a suitcase before I woke up in some asshole's body. This shit was _already_ in your car.” 

Billy apparently didn’t have a response to that either and settled back into his new-found penchant for silence, staring out the window and letting the song play out. When Steve glanced over toward the end of it, Steve swore he could read the familiar flush that had formed on his cheeks as Billy blushing again. Billy was _embarrassed_ , with maybe even the littlest hint of something like a wanting kind of longing or unfulfilled arousal, all from listening to Journey’s “Faithfully,” of all things. 

Steve had never been able to read Billy, and there was no way he would have been able to read him now if Billy had been sitting there in his actual body instead of Steve’s. But Steve can read his own body just fine. The song reminded Billy of something, or more likely _someone_. Steve tried to fight back the jealousy that pulsed through him at that, swallowing thick around the metallic taste of it in his throat. Billy was sitting next to him pining over someone he was either missing or didn’t have—yet—because let’s face it, it was Billy fucking Hargrove and who _wouldn’t_ want him. The only real surprise was that Billy wanted someone back; it was written all over _his_ face. And Steve now knew that he didn’t actually know Billy or his personal life well-enough to even guess at who that could possibly be. And if anything, not knowing at all was worse than knowing who it was. At least if he knew who it was, he’d know Billy’s type (competition), what he liked, what made him blush at just the lyrics of a song. It might be someone back in California, which was the most likely option, since Steve had never seen anyone around school that Billy paid any particular attention to. Not to mention that Steve was well-aware that whoever it was was probably a _girl_ , since not everyone dreamed about dick the way he did. But still, as long as Billy was single, Steve’s masochistic subconscious retained the *possibility* of hope. Steve assumed Billy probably got laid—a lot, but the ‘forever yours’ declaration of the song sounded anything but casual. It made his stomach twist and knot, but Steve still wanted to know anyway. Because once again, not looking didn’t make it not true. And at least then he’d know _something_ about Billy that was real. He wanted to just ask. But Billy was pointedly looking out the window with a set clench to his jaw like he was nervous and edgy enough. So Steve took the final shift into the Camaro’s overdrive, accelerating until it felt like flight. Here he was *inside* of Billy, and yet still actually ever being close to him—having him—had never seemed so far away.


	3. Coups d’Arret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those not fully familiar with fencing terminology:
> 
> Chapter 1: _Displacement_ : Moving the target to avoid an attack.  
> Chapter 2: _Advance_ : The basic forward movement.  
> Chapter 3: _Coups d’Arret_ : (“Stop Hit”) A counter-attack that attempts to take advantage of an uncertain attack.
> 
> Special thank you to badhidingspot for her notes and ideas, particularly Billy offering Dustin a cigarette...

The Hawkins Police station was an old, worn building that sat perched on an even older outpost at the edge of town. That was an odd situation. Usually police stations were located in a town’s center, at its heart where most of the troubles happened and more people could access it quicker when they needed to. But Hawkins was a post-war town, springing up in the 1950s at a time where the government had had a hand in city-planning on a federal level. Police stations were built and funded by the government. So were research labs. Steve had gathered a new-found understanding as to how the Hawkins Police Station actually _was_ located at the town’s center after all, near to the heart of the town, where most of the troubles happened.

By design, the road up to the plant hit the station first, so Steve did too, pulling into the grey lot. He told Billy to stay put in the car as he hefted Billy’s heavy boots out onto the pavement. He didn’t have high hopes that Billy would actually listen, but he cracked the driver’s window anyway, cranking the lever to let the glass recede. Steve bent down to peer through it to make sure Billy was at least pretending to listen. “Be good. I guess you _can_ touch anything you want though, seeing as it’s your shit.”

Billy huffed at him, cranking down the window on his own side to lazily roll his head out of it like a dog that had been left behind, settling himself into the gap between the seat and the door as he pulled out a cigarette. Billy had somehow conjured a pair of Steve’s sunglasses from somewhere, which sat low on his nose as he twisted his neck to light it up and exhale towards the sky. Steve was glad to see that Billy’s choices at least looked less canine on Steve’s body than they could have, but he also kind of hoped that his body didn’t usually look like that much of a yuppie asshole either, that that was maybe something Billy was bringing with him and not the fault of the swoop of his hair over the wayfarers. 

Steve left Billy where he was, already feeling the separation anxiety from his body, like he wasn’t really sure what Billy might do with it once he turned his back—because he _wasn’t_ , honestly. The only comfort was that Steve had Billy’s body as collateral. It was in Billy’s best interests to keep Steve’s body safe or else he might not get his back whole either. Steve was determined to let that be enough. He wasn’t babysitting Billy in a police station; this was the better option. There were bells over the door handle that chimed when Steve pushed the heavy glass open. He knew those bells; he recognized them from Joyce’s store. They had appeared there last winter, once Will had come out of the hole-in-the-world with both Joyce and Hopper behind him. They made Steve smile, warmed with the idea that Hopper could hear a little piece of Joyce now every time he opened the door, that they all could.

The warmth ended when the song of the bells did, however, replaced instead by the harsh greeting of the woman seated at the main reception desk. Steve didn’t know this woman as well compared to the ones that worked the night shifts. He had only seen her around the station once or twice before, and they had never really spoken. But even for those few times, he hadn’t been in this body, so there was no reason she should know him anyway. Not that Steve knew of at least. The look Steve received from the receptionist was cold and assessing. He figured she and Billy might have understood each other, seeing as they both had perfected that stare, but Steve wasn’t used to being that critically assessed off-hand by adults. He was about to introduce himself, but the woman spoke first: “Voluntary surrender?” 

Steve blinked, halting his advance towards her, “What?”

“Are you here to voluntarily surrender?” She repeated, already reaching for the forms. “Is this in response to a bench warrant or are you here on your own recognizance?”

The questions where all comprised of words Steve had heard before, _mostly_ , but they weren’t quite coming together to make any sense, “Excuse me?”

The woman sighed at him, exasperated. “Have you been arraigned yet?” It apparently took Steve too long to respond to that too, because she just kept going, her voice clipped from the annoyance of having to spell it out for him. “Look, young man, it’s not that difficult. Either you’ve already been through the arrest process, made bail, and are coming back at the appointed time, or none of that has happened yet, and you are just turning yourself in now. So which is it: voluntary surrender or recognizance? Because they are two separate forms of paperwork.” She held the sheets up in either hand in front of his face, giving them both a little waive.

Once it finally sunk in—that he was in _Billy’s body_ , wrapped as it was in shredded denim and leather, and the woman had taken one look at it and assumed the only way he was walking into a police station was as a _criminal_ —Steve could feel his defenses rise. He felt, well, insulted, and a little _angry_. “Umm, Yeah. Neither. I’m not a goddamn felon, lady. I’m here to see Hopper. Is he in?”

“ _Sheriff_ James Hopper is not currently in right now, no.”

“Do you know when he will be back?”

“Not until tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Is he not in town?” That was a worrying thought. Was it a coincidence? That whatever had happened had happened when Hopper was away? Or was he maybe here at that time himself and had left so suddenly involuntarily? Steve at least knew El had been staying with Mike for the last couple of days, out of town herself to Nancy’s grandmother’s or something. Mike had wanted to show her the lake. Steve had seen them leave the day before. They were due back tomorrow. Maybe Hopper had decided to take some time for himself too. Maybe it was all just a coincidence.

The receptionist certainly didn’t care about Steve’s internal panic. “I hardly see how that is any of your business. Please leave before I have to call someone.”

Steve could not believe this shit. “ _Call someone_?” His voice was a little louder than it needed to be, but _come on_. “I’m just standing here. Asking to see _the sheriff_. So yeah, if you want to ‘call someone,’ by all means, call _him_.”

The woman just offered him another cold stare. A lot of people looked at Billy like that. Steve had begun to notice that, but he still wasn’t used to it. That was probably part of the reason Billy flirted so often with everything with a pulse, his own private overly-animated way of mitigating the cold-staring world around him.

Steve had never made a habit of charming adults without his softer, safer appearance to pave the way for him. And at this point, this woman was likely a lost cause anyway on any attempts to charm. “Yeah, well, when he gets back. Tell him ‘Steve Harrington’ stopped by to see him. That’s H-A-R-R-I-N-G-T-O-N,” Steve said, gesturing out towards the car in the lot where Billy had long-since ignored Steve’s order to stay put and had instead exited to lean and smoke against the hood. “As in that _Harrington_ , Harrington. Can you do that?”

Steve didn’t _love_ playing the family name card, but he wasn’t above it. The woman scowled at him, but it worked. He could see her jotting down a scrawled note on a post-it, which she added to a pile of Hopper’s mail. “I’d prefer if you put that right on his desk where he’s sure to see it. It’s kind of urgent.”

Steve knew he was pushing it, but he also knew the name ‘Harrington’ still carried a lot of sway around the county. Even if his father mostly only loomed over the place in spirit as a shadow and through the son he always left behind in his stead, he still technically legally owned over half the town, even from half a world away. 

The receptionist glowered at him, but she did it, pulling herself away from her desk to walk over and slap the note down on Hopper’s. Steve hoped for Billy’s sake that he never got in any trouble with the law in any ways that this woman might later need to be an ally for. He hadn’t exactly endeared Billy’s body to her. And if Billy’s track-record for reckless impulsivity was any indication, that might turn out to be a grave mistake. “Thank you,” Steve tossed in, trying to sound as genuine as he could in the aftermath, but he doubt it hit.

By the time Steve returned to the car, the softer music that had been filtering out of the speakers had been replaced with a heavier metallic grind, the former unmarked tape mysteriously missing from the pile. Steve shot Billy a look, but Billy just took a final drag of black air and tossed the butt out towards the street. Steve glanced around the parking lot, but there were no signs of a cassette or its shards sprinkled among the stone, and Billy had never come close enough to the station to throw it in the trash can that sat right outside the entrance. That meant the tape had to still be somewhere in his car, a stashed and sequestered audio-secret that was all the more interesting to Steve now that he knew just how much Billy didn’t want him to listen to it. The kids always liked to tease Steve during their game with the dragons that Steve was bad at quests. Steve always laughed them off, but internally, he had always disagreed. If there was one thing Steve was, it was being good at obtaining obtainable things. Billy himself might not be on that list, but a tape, quickly stashed inside the frame of a car that he was going to be in possession of for the unknowable future, well, the tape was an easy mark. He would find it. And when he did he would _listen_ to it, really listen, and see what it was that Billy didn’t want him to hear.

*****

Between the police pitstop and the expanse of the drive, the day was already creeping its way into the mid-afternoon when Steve pulled up the path to the plant. The land surrounding The Lab was different during the day, but not in the way Steve had assumed it would be. He had never actually been out there at the same time as the sunlight, and he had expected the afternoon would have chased away some of the shadows. And yet none of the bright mid-day sun reached past the skyline, rendering the grounds that much duller in a bleak grey industrial spread. The buildings all stood stark and silent, and there was something lead and heavy in the air like even the ghosts of its past were too afraid to stick around and haunt it.

Steve parked the Camaro on the makeshift gravel, a loose collection of limestone and dirt where the road came to an abrupt end before the gates of the complex. Steve exited the car silently, letting Billy decide on his own if he was going to follow. The shuffle of Steve’s converse across the gravel a few moments later let Steve know that he had. The urge to tell Billy to pick up his feet was overwhelming, but controllable. Steve grit his teeth instead, listening to the grind of the gravel as Billy fucked up the soles of his shoes. If anyone should have a problem picking up their feet, it should be Steve. Billy’s boots were _heavy_ , cumbersome in the thick leather lining. It wasn’t surprising that Billy didn’t see the difficulty in ‘planting his feet,’ but Steve had to wonder at what would happen if Billy ever needed to run.

The quiet stretched on between them as they walked around the perimeter. Billy’s body still ached all around him and the constant moving of the morning hadn’t helped. Neither did the weight of his shoes. And Steve had already questioned the practicality of Billy wearing his jeans so tight even before Steve had ever had to try wearing them himself. Not that Steve didn’t _appreciate_ how they molded around Billy like a second layer of skin when Billy wore them—and he’d never exactly suggest he wear looser pants for that very reason—but his body was already stiff enough to walk around in. It was all kind of fucking miserable, and it had put Steve on edge all morning. He was even more aware of his limitations, like his skin, held tighter and weighted down, was just caging him in. Billy’s body was beautiful, but a prison. Steve had only one hope of breaking out of it, but for once, he couldn’t find any physical signs of the Lab’s involvement—other than the physicality of their predicament itself. Steve kept both eyes open for any movement or even a sign that the Lab had regained any active operations. But after nearly an hour of poking around the grounds, the buildings and the surrounding woods remained a black hole, absent of life and sound. 

Billy had maintained the silence beside him as they walked, which Steve had found deeply unnerving until he remembered that he didn’t actually know how much silence Billy was actually capable of. Over the last few months, Steve had become so accustomed to only ever experiencing Billy’s presence simultaneously with his ever-running mouth, that Steve didn’t really know what to do when Billy finally shut it. But if the morning—his still and empty room, his father’s toneless face, and Max’s deliberate quiet—was any indication, Billy Hargrove might actually spend his days more silent than not. Steve wasn’t sure why the idea made him a little sad for Billy. It wasn’t like Steve spoke to too many people too often these days either.

“There’s no one here,” Steve finally said, awkward and obvious, but needing to break the stretch of stillness between them.

“What? Who did you think would be out here?” Billy looked at him. Surprised for a moment, before he quickly recovered into something more discernibly him. “Meet a lot of strangers in the woods, pretty?” Steve knew that Billy was teasing, all flirtatious sarcasm and deflection, but he answered him anyway.

_More than you know lately._ “No.”

“So, what? You just wanted to get me alone then?” Billy winked his way again, but there was something odd about the motion on Steve’s face. It looked more like a muscle twitch than Billy’s usual ease. Steve had his own games he played, but he was pretty sure ‘winking’ had never been one of them.

Steve rolled his eyes back at him. “Will you stop hitting on yourself? It’s _weird_.”

Billy cranked the tongue in his mouth out in his signature swipe. Steve would have to pull Billy in front of a mirror later and teach him all the things not to do with *his* body. There were things that worked for Billy that just _didn’t_ for Steve, even when Billy was pulling all the strings. Billy didn’t seem to care. “You need to lighten up, Harrington. Like it feels weird to move your face. Seriously, like I really need to work to use the muscles or something. When was the last time you had an actual animated expression?”

Steve glowered, and Billy’s head tossed back, too delighted by Steve’s cooperation in proving him right. “See! Like that. You’re just dead-staring at things all the time. I don’t want to get back in my body and find that you’ve atrophied my face or some shit.”

Steve opened Billy’s mouth to tell Billy all the things Steve ‘would’ do with his face if Billy wasn’t careful, but Billy had already moved on to appraise the rest of Steve’s body. Steve watched as Billy pulled at the cable knit he was wearing until the collar had separated enough from his neck for Billy to look down the front of it. “You do have a _lot_ more muscle tone going on under here than I realized, though. You’ve got a really solid body here. You’re always wearing these sloppy shirts around; You should really show it off more. Especially that shit you wear on the court. How do you even move with all that fabric?”

Steve really couldn’t tell if Billy thought he was _helping_. “And make you have to put on a shirt? Pretty sure the consequences of *that* aren’t something I want to face. Do you even own a shirt loose enough to play in?”

“And why would you taking off your shirt require me to put one on?” There was something to the tease in his tone that sent shivers up Steve’s spine. Something that was all Billy. Steve was suddenly aware of how close their bodies where, a humming current between them that seemed to ebb and polarize, like something about their forms knew they had been altered and recognized the other. It was uncanny, to feel such a push and pull with his own reflection, while blindly only seeing the pieces that were Billy through the cracks. Steve needed to breathe. He took a step back.

“ _We don’t play for the same team_ ,” Steve said, trying to focus and offering the explanation like it was obvious, because they didn’t. Coach would never let them play on the same side outside of the actual games. Steve had asked, almost begged, one day after practice that he switch up the line-up, not sure he could handle another day of Billy pressing up against him on the court with his solid bare expanse of skin. But the coach hadn’t cared that Steve always had to peel his shirt off in the locker room, damp down the back from the sweat of Billy’s chest. He also didn’t care about the longer, colder showers Steve needed to take after, face upturned and eyes closed against the light, because Billy was always _right there_. The only thing the coach did care about was that it made them play better, ‘pushed their game to further limits’ or something, the aggression between them.

Billy froze; regarded him quizzically, scanning Steve for some sort of answer before he seemed to deflate. “Yeah, OK. _Got it_.”

“Got what?” Steve asked, confused by the sudden change in Billy’s temperament. The way he had suddenly just flickered off, a fire suddenly extinguished.

Steve was about to press him on it further as they reached a grove of old trees, their branches thick with age as they climbed their way towards the sky. Something about the bend in them, the way they slouched and bowed under their own weight, was familiar. In a rush, Steve remembered. He remembered the grove, the panic attack, Billy’s hands on his spine, his voice….

“You were there.”

Billy still wouldn’t look at him, keeping his face bent towards the dirt of the makeshift street. “At the party? Of course I was.”

“No, I mean, right here. I had a panic attack. You were there. You were _nice_.”

“Oh.”

“Why?” Steve needed to know.

“Why what?” Billy turned back up towards Steve for a beat, genuinely confused.

“Were you nice,” Steve clarified, before amending, “Why did you help me?”

Billy looked back at the ground, then up at the trees—anywhere than at Steve, or rather his body with Steve inside it. “Jesus, Harrington. You were spazzing out on the ground in the middle of nowhere. I’m not a _total_ asshole, you know.”

“I don’t know what I know about you,” Steve admitted reluctantly. “How’d you know I was having a panic attack?”

Billy’s response came out softer than Steve expected. “I recognized it. I—I have them too. Sometimes.”

“Really? _You_ , Billy Hargrove, have panic attacks.”

“Yeah, _and_?” Billy snapped back, voice raising like a challenge, like the Billy Steve had expected in the first place. Only Steve kind of liked the other response better—the softer, more vulnerable side to Billy that he never would have guessed was in there.

“Nothing,” Steve shrugged. “I just never would have thought you’d be scared of anything.”

Billy laughed, something wry and self-deprecating. “Yeah, well I would have said the same thing about you, princess.”

For a brief flair of a moment, Steve was offended by that, that Billy would assume he had some privileged carefree existence. But as the initial sting began to fade, Steve had a second to look at it objectively—driving his BMW, living in his mansion, partying unsupervised until all hours of the night—he _hadn’t_ really been scared of anything until recently. So instead of picking up the fight, Steve settled back, letting his shoulders relax in an attempt to get Billy to mimic his stance as he cautiously prodded, “Your dad?”

Billy paused, taking another deep inhale until the albeit still rigid lines of his back relinquished a little more of the tension than they had held moments prior. “He’s on the list. The others aren’t anything you need to worry your pretty little head about—even from inside my body.”

Steve understood the warning of closure in the conversation for what it was. He hadn’t earned enough of Billy’s trust to meet all his demons. Steve supposed, under the circumstances, that he should probably respect that. He went for the deflection instead. “Did you just call _yourself_ pretty?”

Surprisingly, Billy laughed at that, a genuine, if not slightly rusty, sound. “Yeah, sweetheart, I’m gorgeous, didn’t you know?”

Steve really couldn’t think of a quick response to that other than the resounding, _‘Oh, yeah; I know’_. A fraction of awkward silence began to fall around them again and Billy quickly intercut it, eyes flicking back over to scan the tree line. “I mean, maybe use the gift of my body to go get yourself laid or something, Harrington—that body's a total chick magnet. Only go for the hot ones though. I got a reputation to keep intact.”

Out of all the things Steve wanted to do with Billy’s body, that was most definitely not one of them. At all.

“Wouldn’t that upset your ‘girlfriend’?”

“My what?” Billy’s eyes snapped back to him, wide, surprised, and a little cautious, before closing down, shutting Steve out completely.

This time it was Steve’s turn to look away to the trees. “I…saw you, during that song. Like you have someone…”

“I don’t.”

“Back in California…?”

“No.” Billy huffed curtly, like he was exasperated by the entire idea of it. As if the idea of him liking someone was ludicrous. Like he hadn’t been obviously pining over someone the whole drive up. Maybe that was the problem. The scoff had been a little too combative, like Billy thought Steve had been making fun of him. He was probably embarrassed that Steve had seen him in the car. “I don’t have a girlfriend back in California. Or here. Or anywhere. Christ. What do you care?”

Steve shrugged, “Just figured that I don’t want to fuck up your life too bad while I’m in your body or whatever. Figure that if you do have someone that they’d, you know, expect you to know it.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t.”

Steve really didn’t know what masochistic side of himself forced him to keep pressing the issue, but some dark compulsion kept driving him forward straight into the utter storm that was Billy Hargrove’s hair-trigger temper. “So someone you want then. I could try to wing man that shit for you. I used to be pretty good at that kind of shit actually.” And that was the bitter truth of it. Steve really had been good at obtaining everything he wanted, once upon a time. When all the bodies around him had been overly-eager and never came with consequences. Loving Nancy had come with too much fallout. And even though Steve wouldn’t say he loved Hargrove by any means, more infatuated with, drawn to, and lusted after, everything about Billy screamed “consequence.” That dancing with whatever devils Billy had inside him would burn Steve to ashes. Steve still just knew it, deep down, that it would be Billy’s face that he saw right before he died one day. There had always just been something about him, that _thing_ Billy had, a flame Steve was drawn to. Steve had seen it, felt it, and he’d just _known_ : one way or the other, Billy was his last stop. But Steve still wanted to burn. 

“Fucking hell, leave it alone, Harrington.” Billy didn’t give Steve a chance to comply voluntarily as he turned away abruptly and headed back down the path towards the car. Which was also just weird: Billy Hargrove, walking away from a fight.

“Ok, OK, I’m sorry,” Steve amended, scuffling after him in the dirt as his ribcage flared up in protest. It really was a challenge to move quickly in Billy’s shoes.

“Yeah, fine, whatever. Just don’t ask stupid shit you already know the answers to.” Billy looked hurt again. Yet another thing that was just weird. If Billy wanted a girlfriend, he could get one. And if he didn’t, that wasn’t Steve’s fault. Not to mention that was the whole problem in the first place. Steve _didn’t_ know the answers to his questions—any of them.

Steve also didn’t really know what to say to that though either, so he just responded in the best way he could to keep the peace. He relinquished the obfuscated point to Billy. “Ok, yeah, sorry.” Steve kept as calm as he could, palms rising in the air in surrender. Billy’s emotional shifts were overwhelming, volatile and sensitive. Easy, to explosive, and then back to easy in a second flat. Steve almost envied that. Over the last year, Billy’s full gambit of expression were emotions that had become harder for Steve to access himself. Even before the past year really, the world had been growing slowly grey. Steve wasn’t about to try and take Billy’s ability to feel something with everything he’s got away from him. He had no desire to dull that vibrancy in the least. Steve fed off of it. Found it addicting in a way that spurred his inertia into a matching form of entropy. It made Steve feel alive. It wasn’t something he was prepared to vocalize to Billy, but he had always been grateful for it: The way Billy had come crashing into his life and changed it. 

The silence fell over them again as they made their way back to the car. Billy had slipped back into a quieter resting state and Steve let him walk unencumbered. There still wasn’t another soul in sight. The switch had had something to do with the earth here though, more specifically what was concealed below it. Steve _knew_ that; he could sense it in the thick, unsettled weight of the atmosphere. There wasn’t a soul in sight now, but there had been last night. There had been plenty of bodies roaming around the woods during the party, and Steve had to wonder if that meant there had been more casualties of the ground below. If there were multiple people, hell maybe even half the senior class, switched around and walking about in variant dissociative fugues. Or if he and Billy were just _special_ , if Steve was somehow destined or designated to end up in a repeat cycle of para-natural hell.

Billy had reached the Camaro and pulled open the passenger side door when he finally spoke again. “I have to have Max home by four. So, I guess that means *you* have to have Max home by four.”

“Shit –the kids,” Steve couldn’t believe he had forgotten, but there it was, they had been the furthest thing from his mind all morning.

“Yeah…”

“Ok, I can take you back to the school to get my car before I pick up Max. You’re going to have to take the others home...”

“Nope.” Billy cut in quickly. “That’s not going to happen. I’m not driving a bunch of kids home by myself. I don’t even know where all those brats even live.”

The excuse was an entirely feasible one, and Steve has to relent to it. “OK, fine. We can take them together. Let’s go get my car and then we can head out from there. Drop off Max first. They’ll all fit in the back of the Beemer, better than this one at least.”

Billy didn’t look like he had much confidence in that assessment. “How we supposed to fit them all in your car? Aren’t there like eight of those little fuckers?”

“Including your sister, there’s usually five.” Steve was pretty sure Billy knew that though. “But there’s only four today. Mike won’t be there. He’s doing some family thing. They’re all small enough; four of them can fit in the back.”

Billy shot him an unreadable look that was slightly withering, “Still keep track of the Wheeler’s schedule, do you?”

Steve choked on the air around him and had to cough to get his breath back. “What?! No. It’s not like that. His mother told me yesterday. You know, before I woke up in some other asshole’s body.”

The truth of that didn’t seem to matter much to Billy. He kept his eyes on Steve the entire way back, head tilted back and smirking, only smiling wider, manic and delighted, at Steve’s incessant but futile pleas that he _“stop being such a goddamn psychopath”_ and just look anywhere else. 

 

****

When they finally pulled into the arcade, the motely group of pre-teens were already gathered outside, eyeing them suspiciously from the curb. Billy had insisted that he should drive. It was already odd enough that they were picking them up together; it would have been even weirder if Billy’s body had pulled up behind the wheel of Steve’s car.

Steve rolled the passenger side window down. “Hey guys,” he said, purely out of instinctual habit, at the same time Billy leaned over Steve to say “Well, get the fuck in.” 

The group froze, baffled and staring.

After an awkward beat of a moment, Dustin’s voice spoke first, “Uhh, Steve?”

“What?” both Billy and Steve replied in echoing unison. Billy shot Steve an exasperated look and Steve snapped his mouth shut quickly, but not quick enough. Steve was pretty sure he knew that from the outside this all had to look concerning: ‘Steve’ giving ‘Billy’ and exasperated glare and ‘Billy’ shutting-up without protest, looking embarrassed, with absolutely no explanation as to why Billy was even hanging around in the passenger seat of Steve’s car in the first place. So yeah, Steve understood why the group would be concerned.

Max cut in, stepping forward towards the car. “Billy, what’s going on…?”

Steve regarded her sympathetically. This whole day had been so much already, they had kind of forgotten to strategize what exactly they were going to tell the kids. All he and Billy had managed to land on was that they shouldn’t tell them the truth yet. Steve didn’t want them playing Jr. superheroes that would likely run off to the Lab in the middle of the night for answers thinking they were invincible, like they _always_ did. Especially not until he had at least located and recruited Hopper for some back up. And from Billy’s perspective, there was no reason why they _should_ tell the kids anything. Billy obviously wasn’t in the habit of sharing much of anything with anyone, and Steve seriously doubted he was about to start with a group of twelve-year-olds. “Go ahead and get in the car, OK? We’ll explain everything once you’re in. We really need to get you home,” he added on for emphasis, hoping Max might know Billy better and understand what that meant.

“Okkk,” She replied with enough caution on her face that Steve knew he had mis-stepped somewhere. “Why are you looking at me like that?” Max continued, sounding genuinely unnerved. “Why are you making your eyes so big? You look like a My Little Pony.”

From out of Steve’s peripheral, Billy angled forward to thunk his head against the steering wheel. And yeah, that could have gone better. But Billy wasn’t helping either. “Calm it down _*Steve*_ ,” Steve muttered at him.

“Fuck you, Harrington,” Billy grumbled back even lower.

Dustin narrowed his eyes at both of them. “Uh, yeah, _Steve_ ,” Dustin said again, coming around the car to open the driver’s-side door to try and tug Steve’s body out of the car. “Uh Steve, man, a word?”

For whatever reason, Billy looked like he was prepared to follow him. Steve grabbed at Billy’s wrist as he shifted the Beemer into ‘park’. “Play nice,” Steve growled, low for only Billy to hear.

Billy smirked at him.

“I’m serious, ‘ _Steve_ ’.”

Billy kept the wide, disconcerting grin on his face as he shrugged out of Steve’s grasp to get out of the car. Steve watched his body walk away from him, Billy’s sharp smile on his face. There was a collection of things on the floor that Steve had never gotten around to cleaning. Steve grabbed the first thing that he could reach with his fingers—an old plastic BIC that was mostly out of fluid and therefore harmless enough—and chucked it at Billy through the window. The plastic connected in a solid, if completely innocuous, hit that snicked off his chest.

Billy threw his hands up in the air. “Hey! Yeah, I got it. Calm it down, Your Highness.”

Steve wasn’t sure why Dustin thought pulling Steve’s body two feet away from the open windows of the car was being at all “stealthy,” but it was exactly that kind of internal Dustonian reasoning as to why Steve couldn’t have these geniuses—who might actually be genius _book smart_ , but had absolutely no situational awareness—running around town trying to “save” him from trained government operatives. 

“Why is he with you?” Dustin asked, overly-anxious and bouncing a bit on his feet. “Are you in trouble, Steve? Does he have something on you? Is this a Code Konitz?”

“A code, what?” Billy repeated. “No, look, kid.” Billy pulled out another smoke from the pack and lit it with the leftover remains of Steve’s lighter. Dustin watched him skeptically as Billy took a deeper drag than Steve knew his body was capable of. Billy seemed to notice Dustin eyeing the smoke, “Sorry, you want one?”

“Umm, no?”

“Ok,” Billy shrugged, “Just being *nice*.” The expression on his face made Steve realize that, unfortunately, Billy thought that that statement was true.

“Right,” Dustin, bless him, was still trying. Steve was kind of proud of him for that. “So, you’re alright though?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be.” Dustin looked back over to Billy’s body in the car. Steve looked away before Dustin could catch him listening.

“Oh yeah, well, _Hargrove_ and I have come to an understanding. He’s… helping me with something.”

“What can _he_ help you with that the party can’t?” The betrayal on Dustin’s face was a little heartbreaking. Steve wished he could just _say_ something. Not until he found Hopper though; He couldn’t put them in that kind of danger.

“I don’t know, shit. Adult stuff.” Even Billy seemed affected by Dustin’s crestfallen face. “Ok, whatever, I’m helping *him* with something and he doesn’t want your help with it. And you don’t want to help him either, right? So everybody wins.” Dustin looked slightly less melancholy at that, but he was still hesitating, loitering there on the pavement unwilling to let Steve go back to the car.

Billy switched his expression into something mockingly innocent, lids suddenly wide enough to reflect the light against the dark irises until his eyes looked like they were on the precipice of tearing. Billy, and apparently also Max, were right; his face _did_ look like a woodland creature like that. Steve hated when Billy was right.

Billy kept his eyes wide and his tone saccharin. “We can’t just leave him, kid. I need to help him, alright? Because if I didn’t, that would be *wrong* and I, Steve Harrington, could never do anything _wrong_.”

Steve also kind of hated that somehow *that* was what worked. Like Steve would ever say _that_ , in those words, with that face. But Dustin cheered right up at Billy’s little mock speech of valor and goodness. He turned his head fully up to Billy, smiling again with that gapped-tooth glee of his. “Paladin,” Dustin concluded, nodded once in understanding, and then climbed into the car.

Billy slid in right after, eyes catching Steve’s. A cacophony of sound and conversation took over the back seat as the kids crammed in together and began talking about things that, luckily, didn’t concern them.

Billy leaned in sideways towards Steve, eyes fixed on the road ahead, as he mumbled, “Told you no one could say ‘no’ to these Bambi eyes of yours, princess.”

Steve huffed back, “You have _never_ said that to me, ever.”

“Well, then, I’m saying it now.” Steve wasn’t sure if his voice was actually lower when Billy was using it, or if his mind was just filling in the gaps, replacing the timbre with what he knew Billy would sound like saying them instead. Steve was grateful once again, that Billy’s body didn’t seem to flush as easily has Steve’s did, or if it did, that it was covered and baked into his skin by his tan. ‘No one’ was a pretty strict parameter. Steve could easily disprove it—plenty of people could, and had, said ‘no’ to him before. But Steve didn’t care so much about those ‘no’s’. He was, however, suddenly _very_ interested in whether Billy considered himself to be on the list of ‘no one’s’ in Steve’s life. And if so, he wondered just how far he could press until Billy said ‘no’. Steve knew he was over-thinking things, because he did that, always picked everything Billy said to pieces until it was so far degraded that he couldn’t put it back together. That didn’t stop the acute feeling of longing though, the first he had really experienced all morning, to get back into his body, just so he could test Billy’s hypothesis out.

****

The drop-off order let Max off first, which meant Will was last, purely geographically. Despite Billy’s earlier protests, he seemed to know where everyone lived after all, requiring minimal to no direction on Steve’s part. Steve let himself watch the blur of the trees tick by the window, lost in the idea of what he could try and use his alleged ‘eye powers’ for when it came to Billy’s powers of resistance. It seemed kind of ridiculous to try and get someone to suck his dick by making wide, sad eyes at them, but Steve supposed it could work the other way—that he could get down on his knees in front of Billy and open both his eyes and his mouth wide, and see if either, or the combo, appealed. After seeing Billy’s dick first hand, feeling the soft, silken weight of it in his palm, Steve was willing to try anything that might work. Steve just wanted to get his mouth on Billy’s skin.

That had been the first real thought he had had about Billy, back in September. Billy had been the new guy, dark and mysterious, yet lit like the sun. He had introduced himself, half-naked against Steve’s spine, sweat dripping down his chest. Steve had wanted to lick him everywhere, right there on the court, lapping at all that salt. He had felt the warmth of him, how solid he was and how he wouldn’t yield. Steve had ignored him, or done his best to, still on the tail end of things with Nancy, and, of a more immediate concern, not wanting to out his unrequited desires in gym class on a Tuesday. But then Billy had been there in the shower, after practice, all that sweat replaced with a different slick of soap. Either way, baring that chest, slippery and wet. Billy had touched him there that day, just once, but it was that spark. Some jolt of electricity that brought all the colors rushing back and had kept Steve pulsating and _alive_ ever since. 

Steve had never been delusional. He’s never written Billy’s name with hearts or dreamed about anything _sweet_. He’s never pretended that he knew Billy. He’d made some assumptions, based on observation and deduction, but he knew that didn’t make them _friends_ —That both Billy and he each had their own fortified walls that were built so high that they might as well have been strangers. No, Steve knew what he’s been craving from Billy was something purely physical, an attraction to the frenetic twist and pull of his skin. There was just something about Billy that made Steve want to _push_ —All the time. To get right back up in his space and _destroy_. It was better than the demo-dogs, or the crunch of his bat: that fight and fire between them.

Billy had been right there with him in the beginning, igniting everything around Steve whenever he saw him, not caring, apart-but-together, if the world burned. But then Billy had pulled away after their fight that night in October, like part of that inferno inside him had been extinguished. He hadn’t pushed Steve back—really pushed—since. And here they had spent nearly the full day together and Billy still hadn’t snapped, had been playing nice, civil even, at least for Billy, all day. The scar above his hairline should probably tell Steve not to push Billy past his limits. But every time Steve tried to resist, Steve would zero in on the matching scar Billy has right above his lip, the one from Steve’s fist where he had hit first. And just like that, Steve’s scar would cease to be a scar, transformed into a souvenir from the time Billy had had his legs spread and seated over Steve’s and lit a match.

It wasn’t that Steve really wanted to *repeat* the fight exactly. Between Byers and Billy, Steve had met his quota for failed fist fights for life. But he wanted that raw spark back: the idea that Billy might want to destroy him too. They had been companions in that heat once, however brief a time. And without it, Billy had become even more of a stranger than he had been before. They had barely even spoken after—before this morning—and it was nearing the end of November. Just some mumbled apologies that Steve hadn’t needed or wanted to hear and then the cold shoulder of Billy’s retreating back. Steve had never really _had_ Billy, but he _missed_ him all the same. But Steve had finally seen it again today, just glimpses of the spirit he’d been missing. Even from inside Steve’s body, Billy was still _there_. Steve could tell there was still some sort of kindling inside his bones and the parts that matched in Steve just wanted to _push_ it ‘til it sparked. Steve just needed to find a way past Billy’s new walls, and ironically, he could no longer do that by getting under his skin.

 

Steve snapped back to the car as Billy pulled into the Byers’ driveway. He hadn’t needed directions to get there either; he had been there before. Like the Lab, the Byers’ place had a much different feel by day, much less haunted than the deep evenings, but still filled with specters even in the light. The house and grounds were kinder here though. It was a once-wounded space, but one that was slowly and steadily healing.

One of those old wounds was Steve’s and Steve’s alone. Nancy was sitting on the porch, tucked up next to Jonathan on the swing, blanket wrapped around them to keep out the chill of the late afternoon. It wasn’t that Steve still loved Nancy like he once had, or even still wanted her in any way that mattered. She had been kind to him once, filled a hole in the empty chasm that was his day-to-day life. It had been different with Nancy. Not fueled by any sort of need or lust, but sweet and tender in a way that felt like Steve imagined home should be. In the end, however, it had been far too easy for her to leave him, and that felt a little too much like the home Steve already knew. Steve tried not to look at the two of them now, forged together against the cold. He failed for a moment, but eventually managed to rip his gaze away, turning to watch Will gather his things instead.

Will looked back at him, shy smile on his face as he blushed. “Uh, It was nice meeting you,” he told Steve, holding out his hand to shake Billy’s.

“Oh,” It was odd, but upon closer inspection, probably true, that Will had never really met Billy. Not when he had been fully in charge of himself at least. “It was really nice to meet you too, Will,” Steve replied, as kindly as he could, not caring in the least if it was something Billy would really do or not as he took Will’s hand and shook it. Will blushed again as his eyes darted over Billy’s body and then away again with lightning-fast speed. Steve recognized that response as one he’d had himself all too often in Billy’s presence. _Oh_. Steve smiled back at him again, “Have a good night, Will.” 

Will nodded and backed out of the car slowly, reaching down to pick up his lunch box. “You too,” he smiled again and went to shut the door. Will’s exit caused Johnathan to call out a greeting, and as much as he tried to resist it, Steve couldn’t help it. He _looked_.

Billy was out of the car before Steve could stop him. “I’ll walk you to your door, kid—I mean, _Will_.”

Billy wasn’t looking at either of them though, his head turned away from the car and fixed on something up the drive. Steve scrambled to open his own side of the car as Billy locked it, letting his head tip out the window to hiss out a warning, “ _*Steve*_ …”

“I’ll only be a minute!” Billy called back, all to cheerful and pleased with himself.

“Fucking, Hargrove,” Steve muttered as he sat back against the seat, tossing a light punch at the glove box in frustration. It seemed like the Billy thing to do. Steve had to admit it was oddly satisfying to feel the give of leather on his knuckles.

Steve watched his body betray him for the fourth time that day as Billy sauntered up the steps, heading straight for the pair on the porch. Steve couldn’t fully make out what they were saying. He could hear Nancy though, as Billy approached her, always louder and more forceful than her frame would have suggested. She gestured wildly at the car in the driveway, “Is that… _Billy Hargrove_?” The name sounded like common poison on her lips. The passenger side window was still cranked all the way down, visibly so. Unlike Dustin, Nancy probably knew *Billy* could hear her from the driveway and didn’t care. Nancy was like that—ballsy and outspoken, fueled with her own kind of fire, and always liking to push and push back. Steve had always loved that about her too—how utterly unyielding she could be when she felt like it. He smiled despite himself.

Nancy’s voice continued to filter into the car, “Are you okay?” She asked, lower and worried. Steve flinched at that. Why did everyone keep asking him that? Almost gently, like they expected Steve to hand signal ‘no’ and for Billy to pounce. Like him being within Billy’s vicinity could only have resulted from some sort of high-octane hostage situation or frightening conspiracy. Granted, this all _was_ likely related to some conspiracy or another, but still. Billy was annoying sometimes, sure, but him being in a car with Steve wasn’t exactly a crisis. If Steve could fend off a pack of interdimensional hellhounds by himself, he could handle Billy Hargrove sitting in his car.

Billy just brushed off the question, a leer on his face at the repeated insinuation that Steve might be in trouble; that so many people ‘knew’ Billy was _dangerous_. The proud mask of arrogance and inaccessibility Billy quickly assumed was so well-set on Steve’s face that Steve couldn’t even tell if it was real. And yet, for whatever reason, Steve didn’t think it was, which was crazy. Billy couldn’t possibly care what Steve’s friends thought of him. Billy didn’t care what anybody thought of him.

The three of them exchanged a few more words that Steve couldn’t hear, but it looked like a surprisingly casual conversation. But then, as he spoke, Billy’s closed expression fell into something new: confident, almost _sexual_ because of it, yet nothing overt. Billy curved over the two of them on the porch, casually loose. Steve had to hand it to him: Billy made him look _good_. Billy tossed a hand through his hair in a way that Steve recognized as something he would indeed have done, back in his more wild and free days as The King. Billy curled down low to whisper something in Nancy’s ear, something short, but substantial. Even from the car, Steve could see her blush. Steve watched on, curious and mortified, as Billy pulled back only to swoop back in on Jonathan's side. Billy must have said something equally scandalous to Johnny, because he too flushed as he swallowed. Both sets of eyes tracked Steve’s body back to his car: surprised, intense, and—Steve realized with an odd little jolt of an emotion of his own that he couldn’t quite place—an aroused and longing sort of _wanting_.

Billy didn’t even look back behind him as he turned and made his way back to the car. Eyes on Steve with an eyebrow cocked, he pulled open the driver’s side door and slid inside.

“What the fuck did you say to them?” Steve hissed as Billy slid back into the car. 

Billy feigned a contemplative pose, licking at his bottom lip. “Oh, nothing much. Just showing them how much they missed out; That they both did.”

Steve blinked, “Excuse me?”

“Byers wants you,” Billy said, like that was somehow an ‘explanation’ rather than a statement that just drew more questions.

“What?”

Billy just shrugged. “He told me once.”

“He told you once,” Steve repeated, incredulous. “When did he ever talk to you about anything?”

“You don’t know everything about me, princess.”

“So I’ve gathered.” Steve dead-panned. He still wasn’t sure he knew anything at this point. “So you just happened to, what, have talked to Jonathan about me? When?”

Billy shook out another cigarette from the pack on the dash, flicking his eyes back over to the pair on the porch while he curled his lip around the paper to light it. “Back when I got here. It was before school started, maybe early-mid July. Met him up at the quarry one night. Weird dude. But he has some access to some good shit. We used to smoke up there sometimes. I don’t think he realized I was going to go to Hawkins. He told me all about you.” Billy’s eyes slid back over to Steve’s; he exhaled the smoke between them. “He has pictures of you, you know. You and Nancy. Some just you. You ask me, I don’t think he ever intended for you to not be part of their little _group_.” Billy let the ‘pop’ of the ‘p’ snap harder than he needed to. He looked at Steve, studying him for a reaction.

Steve didn’t know _what_ to do with that information. The whole thing was probably bullshit, but then again, Billy did somehow know about the photos, and Jonathan was still looking back at Steve’s body in the driver’s seat like he’d just been told Black Flag needed a new front man again and it wasn’t going to be him. “So you what then, just hit on Jonathan just now in front of Nancy?”

“Not exactly, no. Just let him know what he would never have. Why does that bother you? That too _queer_ for you, princess?” Billy stressed his words like weapons, like he really was expecting Steve to say “yes” and put up a fight. “You don’t actually have to suck his dick, Harrington. Chill. Just thought they needed to know what it was like to drop you like that—what they lost, or whatever.”

Steve wasn’t about to take _that_ bait. “And you just did that out of the kindness of your own heart?”

Another shrug, another drag of smoke, another schooled expression. Billy was getting much better at controlling Steve’s face, turning it into a new map of foreign lands that Steve had never seen. “Maybe I just like fucking with people and your body opens up a whole new frontier of possibilities.”

“Now _that_ I believe.” Steve sighed, still trying to process the odd emotion stirring inside him. “Just stop hitting on my friends, okay? Because they _are_ still my friends and I don’t want that to get any more awkward than it already is.”

Billy rolled his eyes, looking bored, like he might not have actually been listening at all. “Yeah, ok, whatever.”

Nancy and Jonathan stayed fixed where they were, watching Billy twist Steve’s torso as casual as ever to see the path behind him as he backed the car out of the drive. All the while, Steve watched Nancy—and Jonathan; registered the reconsidered angles of their faces. Steve really wanted to know what Billy had said to get them to stare after him like that. It wasn’t a look he really cared about receiving from Nancy anymore, or Johnathan for that matter, but he couldn’t deny that there was something a little bit, well, _satisfying_ about it. That’s what it was, the odd new mix of emotion. It was validating and strangely fulfilling, a balm to a still tender ego. A tangible moment for him to hold on to, and a reminder that Steve himself had needed: That it maybe wasn’t that easy after all, to throw him away.

“Thank you,” Steve said, softly, as if speaking those two words were some dark and terrible secret.

Billy flicked his eyes to the rearview mirror one last time as the wheels pealed out onto the street. He didn’t say anything in return, but the twitch in his jaw as he curtly nodded once before shifting into second told Steve that Billy had heard him just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dustin’s “Code Konitz” is in reference to the character Adam Konitz from the 1977 film “Hitch-Hicker.” In the film, a couple gets taken hostage in the their car by Konitz--a wild and sadistic fugitive who has escaped an institution for the criminally insane, stolen a bunch of money, and demands that the couple give him a lift to Mexico. (Sadly the movie isn’t anywhere as good as it could be. But it fits the situation Dustin imagines as one of the only plausible explanations as to why Billy is in the car.)


	4. Parry, Thrust, and Feint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy looked down and _whined_ ; He wasn’t proud of the sound, but there was no one there to hear him anyway. And that just made it worse, because the wet, desperate sound that sliced through the gentle rush of the running shower had come out of * _Steve’s_ * throat, which meant that Billy now knew exactly what Steve sounded like when he wanted something so badly that it physically _hurt_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes, this chapter is long... BUT there's finally dick!--Steve's dick, and Billy touching it. So, any one here for that, there you go. Hope you enjoy. If that's _not_ what you're here for, somehow there ended up being a lot of other words without dick. So hopefully there's a little something for everyone? (Maybe?)
> 
> Also, I know the depiction of the Harrington family in this fic is a tad bit more affluent than they are canonically in the show, hedging a little further east coast (in both culture and class stuff) than you’d likely find in small town Indiana in the early 80s (unless one wants to assume that, say, his super affluent Chicago based family is trying to claim residency in Indiana for property tax purposes...). But either way, "First Season Steve" is like a trust fund away from being a Brett Easton Ellis “Less than Zero” character. And I weirdly love that about him way too much to let one or two state lines take that away from him. So please just go with it. :p 
> 
> (Thank you to all those who have offered kudos, comments, and feedback thus far. Such things are always incredibly cherished and appreciated. <3)
> 
> I am also happily reachable on Tumblr @ False-North

**Parry, Thrust, and Feint**

The winter sun set so early in Indiana; Billy didn’t know if he would ever get used to it. By the time he pulled Steve’s car back into the lot, the dull grey sky was already growing deeper, even though they still had a few minutes to go until five. Which meant they didn’t have much time. Billy’s body needed to be in his house by 5:30, no exceptions, and luckily, after his own run in with Neil that morning, Steve seemed to understand that and was willing to cooperate. Billy let him off at the Camaro in an awkward silence, mouth hovering open as he idled the car, not really knowing what to say. Fortunately, Steve cut in first, “I’m going to keep trying to call Hopper and I’ll meet you at my place in the morning.” Steve got out of the passenger seat, looking back at Billy through the open window as he closed the door, leaning a bit over the curve of the glass, “You know where I live, right?”

Did Billy know where Steve lived—as if anyone in the town didn’t know where the Harringtons lived. As if Billy wouldn’t have found out anyway even if everyone else didn’t. “Yeah,” Billy hedged instead, “I can remember how to get back there from this morning; Your castle’s not exactly hard to find, princess.”

Steve just rolled his eyes but nodded as he fished the keys to the Camaro out of his pocket, his hand pulling the denim tighter across the front as he worked to find them. And yeah, of course _the one time_ Harrington fumbled around with his pockets and his junk in Billy’s direct line of sight, he had to be in *Billy’s body* to do it. Billy didn’t need to strain himself to try and discern the length of *his own* dick. But then again, the idea that Harrington was groping around so close to it—that he might inadvertently _touch it_ —was still definitely something. Billy tried to keep both an eye on his hands and his face to see if Steve might have a similar revelation and reaction, but the angle from the driver’s seat didn’t allow him to take in both simultaneously, and before he could figure out a plan B, Steve had already turned and slid into the Camaro. 

Steve cranked the driver’s side window down, hanging out over the side of it, offering Billy a smile Billy uncannily recognized as one of his own, Steve slipping into the muscle memories of Billy’s face like he knew all the expressions. “So, anything else I need to know? Am I going to have to do some sort of tedious work out routine when I get your body back to your place? I mean, heaven forbid you start wasting away on us or anything.”

Despite the teasing tone, the offer was actually kind of sweet, that Steve had even thought about Billy’s body at all, and that he was offering to _take care of it_. That was not the kind of offer Billy had ever received from anyone before, and it took him off guard, unable to come up with a usual brusque or similarly teasing retort. He could feel himself kind of gape at Steve for a minute before Steve’s face began to falter and Billy had to scramble to fill the awkward silence with _something_. “Nah, it’ll be fine for a few days. Umm, thanks though. Just, I don’t know, be careful with the things you put inside it.”

Steve’s eyes seemed to widen a fraction at that before he blinked a few times, an exaggerated smile sliding back onto his face, mocking and mimicking Billy’s general posturing in a truly uncanny replication as he leaned forward and winked, “Always.”

Billy swallowed his tongue against the innuendo, wishing more than anything that Steve’s teasing implications were _true_ , as Steve relaxed his mannerisms back into something more discernibly Steve, hunching his shoulders forward as he twisted Billy’s body back into the car to start up the engine looking entirely too smug. On any given day, there was always something to remind Billy how entirely cruel the world was in which fate had given Steve Harrington that body with that face and then made him _straight_. A world that made Billy look at him every day knowing he could never touch. It actually made it easier to look at Steve this way, inhabiting Billy’s body instead; even though Steve kept doing things with it that made Billy see right through the casing of his own body to a core that was still all Steve. 

Steve backed out of the parking space, but he was still talking out the window, “I don’t know, Hargrove. I’m kind of craving something _very_ sweet. How much sugar do you have at your place?”

“Don’t you dare, Harrington. Every piece of sugar you eat, I’m cutting off a lock of your hair.”

Steve blanched at that, “You wouldn’t.”

Steve was right, but still, “Try me.”

“Fine,” Steve sighed, temporarily defeated as he slouched into the seat. 

Steve was just too easy; Billy couldn’t resist, “And sit up straight! It’s called a reputation, Harrington. _*I*_ still have one.” 

A little jolt of triumph spiked through him as Steve turned back to him, eyebrow raised but with that shocked and crackling amusement in his eyes, like he was always surprised by just how far Billy would push him. But Billy had learned that pushing at Steve was the only way to really get any reaction out of him, a genuine one at least. So Billy pushed—all the time. Or else, he used to, before he had made the promise to keep away, a promise he’d been keeping until yesterday. But Billy couldn’t resist the opportunity when it was right there in front of him. He would still do anything to draw out that spark in Steve, the one where Steve would crack, just for a moment, through his stoic, disinterested demeanor. As if he was always shocked, but kind of pleased, that someone in his kingdom dared to say anything to his face that was anything less than utterly sycophantic. That there was actually someone who might push before they bowed.

Billy understood that. He had received his own taste of the Hawkins high court when he arrived. It was easy to get used to all that shallow noise and attention, to tune it out. And that push back wasn’t something that Steve seemed to get a lot off. People didn’t just crown a guy their king and treat him like some teen idol god incarnate because they were prepared to provide some brutal honesty and constructive criticism about his personality flaws. Historically speaking, being king had its perks and advantages, but monarchies didn’t inspire much in the way of truth or teasing among equals.

To his credit, Steve did not move to sit up any straighter, offering Billy a flip of his middle finger instead followed up by a little waive—the later of which Billy would _never_ have done, but it was still kind of adorable because the movement was all Steve—as he rolled out onto the main road. 

Billy watched his body drive his car away with a strange sense of detachment. Seeing his body under Steve’s control was definitely _weird_ , but it wasn’t actually the first time Billy had seen his body from an exterior angle. His mother had taken him to some sort of child psychologist a few times when he was a kid out in California who called it “dissociation.” That apparently wasn’t a standard thing most people just did, the whole leaving their body thing, especially children, who almost always had a reason when they did it. Even as a kid, Billy got the sense that the therapist lady had wanted answers from him that she already knew. She was a kind sort of woman, even though reflecting back on it later, Billy was pretty sure she and his mother had been having some sort of an affair. But that wasn’t Billy’s problem—until it was. Until his mother had left with her in the summer of ‘74. Neil had won custody, because Neil always won. If his mother had just left even a year earlier, Billy would have been able to go with her. But in yet another cruel twist of timing, 1973 had been a lives-changing year for family courts, which determined that child custody placement no longer automatically favored the mother, but should be individually assessed case-by-case “in the best interest of the child.” And with those “best interests” in mind, there was no way the courts were about to hand Billy over to his “single”, jobless mother living with some spinster in Fresno when he could be raised right by a military man. A military man who had now been humiliated by a wife who had publicly declared that his dick couldn’t satisfy her.

Whatever minuscule mask of tolerance Neil had been able to afford “the queers” before then had shattered that day. His father taught Billy _all_ about them every chance he got after that—how they were what was wrong with the world, perverted sick trash polluting up the street that needed to be taken out. And if he _ever_ caught Billy so much as _smiling_ at one, or sending any other kind of message that "their kind" was welcome or even "ok," well then Neil assured him that he had plenty of things for Billy to really smile about. The only problem was, was that Neil hadn’t ever taught Billy how to know which ones “the queers” were. At eight years old, Billy hadn’t been able to discern the common denominator outside ‘men who wanted to do _something_ bad with other men.’ But from what Billy could deduce from the things his father said, queers were a lot of things: men who worked at the grocery store or behind a reception desk, women with cats or that went to Neil’s favorite bar that didn’t accept his drinks, anyone who went to college, anyone who wore a white-collar shirt to work or carried a briefcase, his mother. Billy didn’t know how to discern who Neil didn’t want him talking to or smiling at, so Billy had stopped smiling at people all together; it just seemed safer that way. 

It took a couple more years to figure out what that “something” part of the equation was. But when Billy had experienced his first erection only a few short years later, the surprise of his body starting to sweat and tremble as his dick grew hard and aching in his jeans at the sight of Andrew Nobeck’s sculpted, sun kissed body by the community pool in his life guard reds and aviators, beads of sweat and pool water dripping down his chest that Billy had wanted to just suck right off him, Billy had known right then and there that he was _fucked_. 

It had never gone away. That overwhelming need to touch hard bodies, to have them touch his. And that didn’t even begin to compare to all the things he wanted to do with _Steve’s_ body and vice-versa. Maybe it was Steve’s reputation as the former campus Casanova, his entitled ease with his surroundings, or the fact that the preppiest, straight-laced looking guys were often the most deliciously filthy, but Billy just knew that if Billy had had the kind of body that Steve actually wanted, that no one would ever touch it as well as Steve could. 

Steve Harrington, Pretty Boy, Steve-Fucking-Harrington, King Steve: The problem that had a name, many of them. The problem that had consumed Billy so completely for months that it had finally swallowed him whole, apparently. Billy looked down at Steve’s hands on the steering wheel, his long _long_ fingers and the smooth ridged bumps of his knuckles and shivered as he swallowed. Billy brought the right hand to his side, taking in the deft way the lean muscle of Steve’s fingers moved as he shuffled through the deep pockets of Steve’s jacket to pull out the tape he had swiped from the Camaro's player that morning. It was far too dangerous to leave such a thing where Steve could find it. Granted there was no way for Steve to know Billy had ever been pathetic enough to make a fucking mixtape of songs that reminded him of Steve, and that he was still pathetic enough to keep listening to it way too often. There was no way Steve would be able to link the songs to himself, but there was also no way that Billy could sit through watching Steve hear it regardless, trying to pick apart and assess Billy’s most shameful secrets. And Billy also really didn’t need Steve thinking he listened to like _soft rock_ on the regular and think that was music he could actually tolerate under any other circumstances. 

Billy popped the tape into Steve’s player, settling back into the seat as the music filtered in around him. Steve’s car wasn’t his Camaro, but Billy had to admit that it was a nice ride; it suited Steve: the soft supple leather, the warmth of the interior, the smooth drive beneath his palms. Billy probably should focus on more immediate and pressing problems. Like what he was supposed to do _now_ , but he really didn’t have even the beginning trails of those answers. It’s not like he felt all that in control of his life when he was inside his right body anyway. He was used to letting things kind of plow over him and push him inexorably forward towards another brand-new day of the same. He could lose his shit about it like Harrington probably would sooner or later, but that wouldn’t change anything. He wasn’t in control. Same day, different shit; This was at least different scenery. So instead, Billy found himself thinking of Steve, as the soft melodic sounds—Steve composed as a melody—swirled around him. The closer the car got to Steve’s place, the nicer the streets became, dark well-paved roads without a hint of loose or dented gravel. If only Billy’s path to Steve Harrington the boy had been as easy as his house. 

Billy knew better than to take risks—at least, he should have. But Steve had the kind of body that was worth risking his own. The day that Billy had first seen the great King Steve, Steve had been draped all over some uptight and frail looking little bird in his luxury sedan, his hair styled, but not teased; his pants pressed, but not tight. Everything about that tableau screamed _straight_ , and Billy should have just listened to the universe on that one before he let himself look too closely. But there was just something magnetic about Steve, electric, and just so _pretty_ in a way that Billy knew could easily shred him raw and leave him in shards if he drew too close. So, he hadn’t listened. Instead, he tried making little advances, at first, just to see if Steve was (by any small miracle) _down_. But Steve never pressed back into him on the court, and he didn’t look at him in the shower. He never took an offered smoke if it was already lit; never asked about the hook in Billy’s ear, or lingered on the colors of the bandana that hung from the back pocket of his jeans. In a town as small as Hawkins, it had only taken Billy two weeks to find all the carved-out nooks and crevices around town that a boy like him could go, where others of his kind went too and met up together in the dark. Billy had haunted those places for weeks, and, as far as he could tell, Steve never came to any of them. And eventually, Billy had to face the cold, hard facts and just accept that the guy was straight, or at least, not into Billy. That was a true great American tragedy, but also sort of the expected trajectory of Billy’s life. He still wanted to be near Harrington though, as much as he possibly could, as pathetic as that was. So he tried befriending him instead. 

Growing up, Billy had never had any real friends exactly. He had never really been allowed to spend any time with guys his own age, nowhere to really meet and foster anything for any extended period of time outside of Neil’s ever-watchful fist. And he had nothing in common with girls outside a love of dick. And talking to them about what they were getting that he wasn’t, was just depressing. He raved with a few people back on The Coast, and that was easy enough. You just needed to press your way in and show them you were down. That you were there to party and could take a hit. Of course, those had been guys like him, wrapped in leather and smoke, who knew the pleasured vibration of an amp and some speakers or a v8 engine. No one had ever taught Billy how to befriend a guy who owned a pair of goddamn _loafers_ other than to score him coke and blow him while he’s high. And although Billy would happily do that for Steve in a hot fucking minute if he asked him to, that didn’t seem exactly like the best ice breaker for the guy you had to sit through homeroom with after if he wasn’t actually into it. 

Billy had tried to show an interest in Steve’s interests, taking up basketball and hanging outside the arcade. He tried to comfort him after Nancy dumped him, boost his confidence a bit. He offered him things: cigarettes and girls’ numbers that they had slipped into his pockets at lunch that Billy certainly wasn’t going to use. He corrected what Steve had said wrong in class, so he could get it right the next time—had even told Steve once or twice that he could help him, if English was really _that_ hard for him. He showed him basketball moves, good ones, better even than the ones Harrington had been using. But Harrington just dead stared at everything, like Billy wasn’t worth his time in the least. And yeah, maybe Billy should have taken the hint. That Steve was so far above people like Billy that he couldn’t even be bothered to look down to see him. But there was just something about Steve—something _different_ , and Billy thought maybe even a little lonely. It was in the way he looked sometimes, just off to the right of people’s faces, like he wasn’t fully present; his head somewhere else. 

So Billy tried to befriend him, and maybe he sucked at it, but he was _trying_. 

If today was anything to go by, it hadn’t worked in the least, but Steve had at least talked to him today and that was something. Maybe by necessity, sure, but they were still in this thing together in the meantime, and that was something too.

The private road up to the Harrington manor, or mansion, or whatever the fuck people called it around here, was long, twisting and bending up the hill. The house at any other part of the year would have been hidden from the street by the foliage of the trees. In the pre-frost of winter, however, the leaves had all shriveled and collected on the ground, leaving the structure on the hill behind it visible through the skeletal remains of the plant life. There were no such houses in California, isolated and so thoroughly alone among the trees. The space was too valuable on the coast, everyone building on any spare scrap of land they could. Even when moving from LA to San Francisco, the only change had been the increase of hills and a slightly elevated tendency to build upwards into the sky as the city’s expansion remained forever reined in by the bay. But the lot sizes remained the same, everything remaining tightly compacted in. Even with his eyes closed and windows drawn, Billy had always been able to still hear the neighbors. 

It was also kind of exasperating that Billy could see the house so clearly in the distance, even though the private drive still had such a long stretch to go. But Billy didn’t want to risk flooring it up the drive. The sheerest layer of evening ice had begun to crystallize on the ground and he didn’t intimately know the reflexes of Steve’s car or his body, or even the bends of the land. Driving on ice was different, a little exhilarating from the slippery traction whenever the tires didn’t quite catch on the ground, spinning out over the slick of it. But it was also a little intense, forced Billy to be more cautious on the roads than he wanted to be. After all, Billy had never driven on ice before, had never even _seen_ ice in the wild outside of ice cubes in a glass. 

But that was Hawkins, a brand new and wild wilderness. Everything was just so different in the Midwest, strange terrains and odd customs in a foreign land that left him lost and flailing to latch onto anything familiar. The social order and expectations were even stranger, but he had learned them too, or tried to. Like when during the first week into “Operation Befriend Steve Harrington,” Tommy had told him proudly that Steve was the “Keg King,” whatever the fuck that was. Alcohol back home had meant vodka and a chaser, but it seemed to be the way to get in with Steve’s friends, so Billy had learned. It wasn’t that difficult of a concept. The main trick was all just gag reflex and breath control, and yeah, he had had some practice with that. New Keg King—easy. The idea that Harrington must also have near that level of control in those areas to have been the former champion, well yeah, that was certainly a bonus. But when Billy had marched right over for Harrington to declare a rematch and prove just how much he could fit in that pretty mouth of his, well, nothing, again; he had just stared him down. Billy didn’t know _why_ though. He was pretty sure that he had done the keg stand thing right, everyone else seemed excited enough by it and it wasn’t like drinking beer was all _that_ mentally taxing of a concept. But then again, Harrington didn’t ever respond to things Billy did the way that everyone else did, which always inevitably left Billy feeling lost all over again. 

And then there was the basketball. Billy had never played on an organized team back in California, but he played enough streetball to make the one in Hawkins. The team’s game in Hawkins was soft, bound and tethered by all sorts of industry rules and enforced penalties that Billy had never even heard of. Billy missed playing B on the pavement—The extra challenge of the cracks and divots in the ground and the loose bits of gravel that could make the ball bounce at wild and unexpected angles. When the ball wasn’t shiny and new, or even all the way full, maybe even leaking, forcing all the players to stay lower to the ground to keep up with the aborted bounce. He missed the body contact. How if you were going to cover someone, you _covered them_ with an insistent hard elbow or chest. The guys in his old neighborhood had had a lot of aggression; they had earned it, deserved an outlet and they provided that for each other, always with an undercurrent of mutual respect and understanding that didn’t need to ever be verbally addressed. That’s what it was to be a team. Not whatever Hawkins was, with its soft players and softer game. Boys that would jeer and hit at each other like the hit was really indeed meant for them. Like they didn’t see the difference between a verbal assault and playing the dozens. Billy could shit talk with the rest of them back in Cali, but on the pavement, everybody knew, they weren’t the true target of aggression. That shit truly belonged to the men that tried to keep them down, caged, and cornered. The court was a place to be free. 

Billy didn’t feel free on the court in Hawkins. It was in a room for one, inside with all four walls. For another, no one was on his side. The Players on the Hawkins court only saw his value in terms of point average, in what he could do for them. All except Steve. Steve, in his usual contrast with the crowd, seemed to be the only person in Hawkins who didn’t want anything from Billy, didn’t seem to even think that Billy had anything to offer him at all. Billy didn’t know which one was worse. All he knew was that Steve was right; he really didn’t have much to offer anyone, but he wanted Steve to want something from him anyway. And yeah, Billy was aware that his entire existence these days was kind of a cosmic joke. And that was even _before_ he woke up in Steve Harrington’s _body_.

And even _that_ still wasn’t the biggest, cruelest trick the universe had to offer when it came to Billy’s past-and-present with Steve and his body. Billy let the shame of that thought wash through him—he deserved to feel it—as he clenched Steve’s hand against the wheel until it turned white, making a fist around the curved handle of the leather. Steve’s hands were smooth and lean, almost delicate, not made to fight, and yet Billy had _hit_ Steve once. He couldn’t remember the night itself, but he was 98 percent sure of it. Billy had woken up in the hospital one evening, a month or so back: drugged, concussed, and covered in contusions. Billy knew only Neil could have done that kind of damage. And that, according to the paperwork, Susan had been the one to drop Billy off at the hospital during the late morning hours after Neil would have gone off to work, had confirmed it. But Billy’s knuckles were also bruised and raw, and that was different. He spent the whole night terrified that he had hit his father, even though Billy hadn’t realized his subconscious was fucking _suicidal_. But his father had come by the hospital the next morning to make sure Susan’s weak, bleeding heart hadn’t made Billy feel like he could break their Code of Silence and Neil hadn’t had a scratch on him. 

The initial relief had been sudden and quick, only to be just as quickly replaced with a new, different sort of panic as he looked down at his hands. The second Neil had left, the floodgates had shattered and that new fear had washed over him until he was hyperventilating in a hospital bed repeating a mantra of, _“Who did I hit?”_ over and over until the day nurse had to come in and calm him down. 

The nurse had been kind to him. Kinder than Billy deserved, and kinder than he had known in a long while. She was older, older even than his mother would have been now. She had held his hand and told Billy stories while he came down. Tales of a husband who had served in Korea and came back different. Something about the stress and trauma of the whole ordeal that made him break sometimes—a whole body glitch that would usually just leave him blanched white and screaming. But if it was bad enough, when he felt cornered, attacked, or trapped, he’d lash right back out, clawing at anything and everything around him that might attack first. It was survival at its fittest, broken down and then reassembled wrong. “Intermittent explosive disorder” triggered by a PTSD that ran so deep it had become a part of his bones. That was more common than people really realized, she tried to assure him. That those with trauma still often tried to survive with everything they’ve got left. 

That hadn’t made Billy feel any better. That still didn’t _fix_ anything, and he had told her that. She had, in kind, taught him how to breathe—some exercises that might keep the panic and the fight at bay. It still wouldn’t fix him, but it would help. Billy still used what she had taught him. He used it every day. 

She had also told him how “They” say that no one really comes home from war, and that made sense to Billy, since home was where the war was. He just had to live with that, and make sure to keep the casualties low. That’s why when he saw Steve Harrington’s face when he got back to school two weeks later and the remains of the contusions on his face, Billy had just known that’s what his fists had found. Something in his subconscious had destroyed his only potential shot at an ally. He knew what he needed to do then, as much as he didn’t want to. He couldn’t let Steve into a battle zone, directly in the line of fire. All Billy wanted was to be near him, but he burned everything he touched. He had to let him go. 

And Billy had tried, so very hard. He hadn’t talked to Harrington in _weeks_ , had maybe only driven by his street two, maybe five, times on the nights that things got too bad to go anywhere else. It always helped some—just driving by Harrington’s house on his street, seeing the light on through the trees and knowing Harrington was in there somewhere in the depths of its walls, alive and safe because Billy wasn’t there to bother him anymore, to put him in any kind of danger, meant that Billy had made a good decision for once. That he could keep making it, to keep Steve safe. And here he was about to go back inside Steve’s house, inside his body. Billy never could do anything right, but this was a whole other level of failure. He had no idea how this had happened, but he was pretty sure it was his fault. 

***  
Billy parked Steve’s car on the driveway, not wanting to bother with yet another foreign element of the garage, and let himself in the front door. Steve’s house was just as empty as it had been that morning. It stood on the peak of the hill, lumbering with wide sheets of glass windows that shone so garishly with light in the dusk that it seemed all too vulnerable, a beacon to anything in the woods that might be attracted to the glow. It freaked him out. Billy was almost reluctant to turn on the lights because of it. He was, at the very least, determined to keep them off for as long as he could, and take what he could of the fading sun to explore the house beforehand. He hadn’t had a lot of time that morning, a little too distracted and wholly confused. 

Billy hadn’t been kidding when he told Steve that he thought his psyche had finally snapped—that he was dreaming or delusional, or maybe even dead, because as much as he had dreamed about Steve being inside him, or even the other way around, this was never what that had meant, not even close. But it had still felt like a dream, that morning, waking up in Harrington’s bed. Consciousness had filtered in slowly, followed by the scent of him. Billy hadn’t even been able to open his eyes, because even though he had dreamed all about Steve before, frequently and repeatedly, rarely did he _smell_ him in his sleep, not so vividly and real. But the feeling of Steve was everywhere, warm and welcoming, and his sheets felt softer than they ever had before, the bed supportive and firm. It was absolute fucking bliss and there was no way he was going to open his eyes to dispel the hallucination. 

Billy was also pretty sure that he had maybe heard somewhere that phantom smells were not a great sign, health-wise. Something about blood clots or strokes and burned bread. Only Steve didn’t smell anything like fire. He smelled like air, or rain. Something stormy and ultra violet, like lightning right before it strikes. And if this was how he was going to die, in the electric full body embrace of Steve Harrington’s very essence, then Billy had been ok with that. And if he wasn’t dying, if loitering in the sheets in the limbo zone of wakeful sleep was surely about to have Neil crashing in to tear him out of it in order to drive Max to school, well he was ok with that too. Dying was definitely on the table though, because it was almost like he couldn’t even feel his body. Neil had laid into him the night before. Nothing too bad, but enough that his ribs should otherwise be feeling it. But nothing. He was floating. It really was pure fucking bliss and Billy just couldn’t care about anything beyond that. But eventually he had needed to admit that the fact that Neil hadn’t come pounding on his door by then was weird and unusual and had reluctantly opened his eyes. It had all just gotten weirder from there. 

And now here he was, back in Steve’s house after spending the entire day by Steve’s side, _inside_ Steve’s body. And it was _still_ weird, but Billy was determined to not waste a minute of it. Billy prowled the halls of the Harrington estate, poking and prodding at everything he could in the fading twilight. Steve’s house was, overall, overwhelmingly white: beige plush carpets and eggshell walls, cream leather couches, and see-though furniture. Billy was sort of worried that he’d dirty the place up just by looking at it. The rugs were also almost alarming to walk across on a purely sensory level. But the more he moved around inside the house, the more the weird sinking sensation of walking on the long-pile carpet began to subside. 

It turned out to be harder than expected to search through all of the Harrington’s possessions. Steve’s family just had so much stuff, drawers and cabinets full of things that looked like they hadn’t been touched in years, and none of it was particularly interesting. He found drawerfuls of long tapered candles, extra bulbs, and flashlights, like the place was somehow always starving for light. There was another drawer of napkins, cloth ones out of linen, embroidered with a swooping and scrolling “H” at the corners. There were placemats and doilies, and so many sets of dishes in crystal and porcelain and patterns: ones for Christmas, another with floral designs and maybe vines of grapes, and another with odd geometric shapes around the edges, wooden boxes of back up silverware in actual silver, and a whole drawer dedicated to envelopes and tape. 

The stairway of the upstairs hallway was more interesting on account of the framed collection of photos that seemed to span the generations of “Harrington.” Many were old ones, black and white faces of times longer ago, all with Steve’s nose and the same slant of his chin. Many looked like they might be of Steve’s parents, including one on their wedding day, looking more formal than free as their two tall and slender frames, just like Steve’s, leaned forward to cut a wedding cake. Those same two bodies were replicated over and over in exotic landscapes across the wall: France, Egypt, Belize. And then there was Steve, _young_ Steve, Steve as a child with a dopey wide smile and a full head of hair from day one. He too was scattered throughout the frames, his limbs getting longer and his smile drawing tighter, more practiced over time, holding the hands of different women, all older and more maternal than Steve’s mother, who were likely the parade of nannies who had raised him. Steve had gone through an overly lanky stage, a sullen stage, and a stage somewhere in between those where he appeared to be more willing and actively attempting to adhere to his father’s image, donning tailored suits and cardigans by a sea shore. No matter the age, no matter the phase, Steve was still breathtaking in every single one of them. 

But something ached a little bit in his chest at the spread of Steve’s life, picture perfect, and yet just as isolated and lonely in the cracks as his house. Something also ached along his deltoids, deep knots in Steve’s muscles that Billy had been growing slowly and increasingly aware of all day. Steve carried so much tension in his shoulders, the muscle so cramped and shriveled Billy was surprised Steve could stand up straight. Billy was starting to understand that his suspicions were maybe correct, that Steve’s life was maybe a bit sadder and lonelier than others really realized, but he had no idea what Harrington had to be so fucking tense about. Then again, the rich were always uptight about _something_. And the lone chill of the house didn’t help. A house this size with so many windows was hard to heat at the onset of December. There were plenty of fireplaces, one in almost every room. But Billy wasn’t like some sort of _boy scout_ or whatever that knew how to start one. It wasn’t that Billy didn’t know what it was like to be cold, but between the temperate heat and the risk of brush fires on the coast, you didn’t teach a kid how to start a fire in coastal California unless you had a damn good reason. 

That was how Billy made his first great mistake of deciding to take a shower. He had just been thinking of the dull chill and Steve’s back and the heat, how it would be good for his muscles, and it wasn’t like Steve expected him not to shower the whole time he was in his body, right? Billy had woken up that morning already in Steve’s clothes and he hadn’t changed, but that wouldn’t work forever. And the Harrington’s bathrooms—and yes, there were _bathrooms_ , plural, five of them—that Billy had found while scavenging the house were all lavish to the point of absurdity. Steve even had _his own_ bathroom attached to his own room, a private luxury that even the master bedroom at Casa de Hargrove did not have. What Billy knew as a four people to one bathroom ratio, Steve seemed to know as a one person to four bathrooms. Apart from what appeared to be his parent’s room and their own en suite bathroom that was larger than the Hargrove’s kitchen, complete with turquoise tiles, layers of glass, and a jacuzzi, all wrapped in gold trim, Steve had stuff scattered throughout all the other rooms. It seemed odd, for Steve to have the turquoise and gold decadent monstrosity of his parent’s bathroom at his disposal and not use it. But his parent’s room seemed to be the one room in the house Steve never went in. There was a dustier feel to the room as a result, something still in some small way sacredly preserved and yet forgotten. 

Billy didn’t have any qualms about using Steve’s parent’s bathroom, but he still preferred Steve’s. His private one attached to his room where Steve kept all his more personal things to shower. His bathroom was also nice, with dark rich tiles and a surplus of reflective surfaces between the long-mirrored vanity and the semi-frosted glass door of the shower. Billy pulled open the shower door to turn on the spray, letting it warm to his touch as he searched the interior closet for a towel. Steam had just begun to creep over the glass as Billy stripped Steve’s body down, and then just looked down, and _holygoddamnjesus_.

Blood rushed to his head so quickly that his vision went a little white; he slapped his hand out against the door of the shower to keep the body steady as he blinked. Billy didn’t tend to make a habit of fucking *fainting* over dicks, but whatever Steve’s been packing belonged to an entirely different species or something; it was just _that_ big. And _yeah_ , Billy loved every goddamn thing about that and then some. Billy looked down again and _whined_ ; He wasn’t proud of the sound, but there was no one there to hear him anyway. And that just made it worse, because the wet, desperate sound that sliced through the gentle rush of the running shower had come out of * _Steve’s_ * throat, which meant that Billy now knew exactly what Steve sounded like when he wanted something so badly that it physically _hurt_.

Billy clenched his fist, digging the nails into his palm for the focus to conjure up some restraint, wanting nothing more than to _touch_. Billy was a lot of things, but he’s never been a fucking rapist. He knew enough about what it felt like to have unwanted hands on his body: be they Neil’s more overt fists, or the more insidious and insistent hands of the girls at school that would paw, and pull, and grope at his skin, who would always just laugh and never stopped when Billy said “no,” like they thought he was only _joking_. Not to mention that, for guys like Billy, touching another man who wasn’t absolutely, one hundred percent down for it, could be downright _dangerous_. So yeah, Billy’s kind of made it a habit to get explicit permission before he touches _anyone_. 

Billy’s never touched anyone that didn’t stick their cock down his throat first, but he really didn’t know the protocol here. He was the principle driver of Steve’s body at the moment, but he didn’t know if that meant he could touch Steve’s dick, if he _should_ , considering what he wanted to do with it. He didn’t think to ask Steve before he left and that wasn’t something that generally came up in conversation. But like the showering, there were some very real basic concerns at play outside the whole ‘to touch the dick, or not to touch the dick’ because he wants to thing. Mainly, he hadn’t taken a leak all day, hasn’t needed to, for whatever weird reason. But as if suddenly his conscious awareness and the body had finally synched, Billy felt all of the basic needs crash over him: his bladder was full and aching, his stomach was empty and starving, and his traitorous mind was still dizzy with the knowledge of what Steve has been packing under his chinos. The first of those problems was the most pressing at the moment, so he kinda needs to touch Steve’s dick to do it or else that was going to get everywhere. And somehow that seemed worse than just touching Harrington without confirmation. Only the problem remained that Billy wasn’t sure he could *just* touch it.

Billy had an uncle once, on his father’s side, who had been an alcoholic. Meaner than Neil even when he hit the Jack. He had tried AA for a while, which had meant a few years of hearing him say how “it’s never just a sip.” When you have a problem, any drop is going to lead to downing the bottle. And that must have been what happened, eventually, because he had died of alcohol poisoning after a bender three years later. Billy gets that now, more so than he ever could empathize with before. He’s pretty sure that just one touch and his body isn’t going to stop him until he finds a way to get it down his throat. On the plus side, the fact that *his* throat was half a town away in the numbered streets made things a little easier—but also kind of worse. 

In the end, his bladder made the decision for him. That was the story Billy was going to stick to at least. But as predicted, the moment his hand touched Steve’s skin, the nerves there began to tingle, filling Billy with a quickly mounting need for _more_. A burning, fevered sensation spread from the contact points of his careful fingers; the burn traveling up his spine until he was shivering slightly from the heat of it. Billy persevered enough to get through it, relieving Steve’s body and trying to look down as little as possible, like he was trying to give Steve privacy of all things or something. But the entire bathroom seemed like one giant reflective surface. No one needed that many mirrors, but this room had them, which meant his averted gaze caught Steve’s face instead. Billy stood there long after he was done, body frozen, but pulse racing as he looked at Steve’s face. He couldn’t look away, meeting Steve’s eyes first in the mirror before trailing them over the body reflected back at him. Seeing the full stretch of Steve’s soft, lithe form fully for the first time was surreal, especially given the circumstances. It was rendered even more intangible by the mirrored image, slightly obscured by the growing condensation on the glass from the steam, like chasing the ghost of something beautiful in the water. 

Billy willed himself to pull his hand away, to let go--to literally do anything other than stand there staring at Harrington’s mouthwatering form while cradling the heavy weight of Steve’s dick with an embarrassing (but entirely warranted and necessary) amount of reverence in his hand. The best Billy could seem to do was to tear his eyes away from the pale expanse of Steve’s chest to his face. All that did, however, was give Billy a renewed glimpse of Steve’s eyes growing hooded with want, the sharp cut of his cheeks flushed pink with it. How wet Steve’s mouth looked when panting on thick air. Steve’s body, at the very least, wasn’t saying “no,” and without the rest of Steve physically there to stop him, it was all too easy to imagine the deep red slant of his lips moaning, “yes.” 

Billy could hear Steve in his head, how his eyes would twinkle like they did sometimes on the court whenever the ball sunk right in, nothing but net, followed by Steve’s smug smile. The way he’d lick his lip, subtle and seductive, like he did at parties, chasing the long pull of a beer with his tongue. “Yeah,” Steve would say, with that twinkle and that _lick_ , “come on, Hargrove, _go for it_.” Billy studied Steve’s face, his painfully pretty face. He moved Steve’s tongue to swipe at his bottom lip, tilted his head, bared Steve’s throat, took in the wide dilation of his eyes. Billy broke. He wrenched his hands away just long enough to climb into the running shower, pulling the glass door open and shut, before both of his hands gravitated right back to Steve’s frame. Billy curled his center inwards, pressing his thighs together to relieve the ache as he mapped Steve everywhere with his fingers, the cold tile of the shower wall pressed into his shoulders as the hot water poured over the front of him. The collide of temperatures, the soft touch of his skin, the hard, subtle curves of Steve’s lithe muscles underneath: Billy had never felt anything better. 

Billy looked down again, inhaling deeply as he surrendered to what he was about to do, letting his left-hand drift down the indentations of Steve’s pelvic bone before his fingers wrapped reverently again around the soft but so very heavy weight of Steve’s cock. It was curious, Billy knew that Steve was right-handed, and yet Billy’s own left-handedness had seemed to follow him into Steve’s body. Billy had been using the left all day, which now felt odd against the skin there, like it was maybe more used to feeling the touch at an inverse angle. It was also oddly exciting because of it, like Steve’s body was touching itself, but Billy was too. Billy watched Steve’s hand as he moved the fingers in a tentative whisper, delighting in the shiver afforded by the dexterity of the tease. He had noticed Steve’s fingers before today: how could he not? Steve had hands that were as long as the rest of him, and Billy had missed several classes worth of lectures to fantasies of just how far up inside him those fingers would go. Steve’s fingers were long, but Steve’s cock still felt massive even in his own hand. Billy didn’t think anything could have ever felt more perfect—until the feeling _grew_ , as Steve grew, and _kept growing_. 

“Holy fuck,” Billy also didn’t tend to make a habit of talking to himself out loud, but this situation warranted it; couldn’t be contained. “Holy fuck, Harrington,” he repeated, breathed into the steam of the air. “There’s no fucking way…,” Billy had kind of assumed that Steve soft was going to be about the same as when he was hard—it had to be right? But, no, the length beneath his fingers continued to expand with the blood flow. Billy had also always assumed that when people joked about how men with huge monstrous dicks must get dizzy and lightheaded due to the lack of remaining blood still in circulation, it was just that—a joke. But once again, Billy was definitely dizzy, and certainly lightheaded, although he didn’t know if that part was intrinsic to Steve’s anatomy or Billy’s own reaction to the physical and visual stimulation. 

Either way, Billy was gone enough to claim insanity later if he needed to. That he shouldn’t be held accountable, because he wasn’t in his right state of mind, because he didn’t have any blood leftover to think. Billy tugged at Steve’s length experimentally, moaning at the spike of sensation it shot up his spine. The sensation was similar, incredibly so, to how Billy himself would feel when touching his own body, and yet, it was also _different_ somehow. Billy couldn’t quite put his finger on it, so to speak. He was used to a more radiating form of pleasure, something that started from his pelvic core and tingled outwards to reach his limbs, the tips of his fingers, even sparkled in his scalp. Steve was more linear, a pulsating current tethered from the base of his spine to his throat. Billy continued the experimental strokes; the odd linear sensation remained, no less bright than his own, but still so very strange. Billy found that he even felt compelled to move and position Steve’s body differently. If Billy was at home, with his own body, he would have relaxed his body more, titled back to let his spine arch his pelvis forward, and turned out his legs to open everything up. But Steve’s body naturally curved forward in pleasure, remaining closed and still so very linear, only slightly bent. 

Billy took advantage of the natural lean to curl forward into the steady stream of the shower, the pressure and heat of it a grand luxury that Billy rarely encountered. With four people in a household sharing a bathroom, and one of those people being Neil, Billy didn’t often get the luxury of long showers, let alone masturbating in one. If he ever did, it had to be quick, a rushed act of stress release and desperation. He managed to touch himself a bit more in his room, whenever Neil would take Susan out and Max had gone to the arcade, but he always still had to keep an eye on the clock and the other out the window on the driveway to make sure no one came home early. Once or twice he had risked it in the dark, after everyone had gone to sleep. But the walls were thin and the whole house creaked, and every time something clicked or thumped outside his door, he would be _sure_ it was Neil’s footsteps on the hardwood. 

And maybe it was supposed to be perfectly natural for teenage boys to masturbate and explore, healthy even, as his old health education teacher in Cali had taught. But something tells him Neil wouldn’t see it that way. Billy’s pretty sure that if his father ever caught him, walked in just at the wrong moment to have a ‘talk’ and found him in the middle of stroking himself off, that Neil would somehow just be able to tell why and that he’d know exactly what Billy was thinking about to do it. It didn’t help that Billy had certain other things that he usually also needed in order to really get off in a fully satisfying way. _Certain things_ that weren’t so easy to do, hide, and get away with. 

But that feel of sex was a need, a necessity—especially if he had to go to school and see Steve everywhere. _Steve_ : strutting around in those tight, soft-looking sweaters all day, chewing on pen caps and cigarettes like he had an oral fixation to rival Billy’s, and smiling lazily at everyone he passed like he just assumed everyone knew him—because they did. So, Billy had learned, had trained his body to go fast and rough. The right stroke, the right bite of urgency, and mix in a little bit of fear, and he could come as quickly as he needed to. Even if it was often more an orgasm of maintenance and survival than any raw, unfiltered pleasure. 

Billy’s rarely had the luxury of going slow, so he went slowly with Steve’s body now, teasing around the skin of his thighs, the flat, dipped planes of his stomach. Steve’s skin was soft, smooth. It reacted to his fingers, light ghostings of a shiver where Billy scratched softly with his nails. Steve’s skin wasn’t as sensitive as Billy’s own though, although that wasn’t necessarily surprising. Billy would have thought with all the rough impact his own body had undergone, that it would have grown hard overtime, desensitized. However, in some bizarre twist of physiology, the opposite had happened. His skin instead was always _too_ sensitive, all the nerves lighting up on impact as if expecting a fight until any touch lighter than a fist felt like a melted, warm caress. It didn’t matter what the touch was—hard, rough, fast, gentle, tentative, or even slow, it lit his body up. Billy loved to be touched by the people he actually wanted to touch him. He just rarely ever was. 

Billy still, however, knew all his favorite places to be touched, so he tried them out on Steve. But it wasn’t the same, didn’t necessarily feel any better on Steve than the spots beside it. So Billy took his time to figure out what worked for Steve’s body, running his hands over his skin, pressing and messaging everywhere with his fingertips to see what sparked. Whereas Billy’s most sensitive places were the back of his thighs, the collar of his neck, and the pull of his scalp, Steve seemed to have sensitivity in his tips: his calves and feet, his ears, and surprisingly, his hands themselves. Billy had figured _that_ one out when he put Steve’s fingers to his lips and slid them into his mouth, just to taste the length of them, and had experienced an unexpected tingle and jolt that ran from his fingertips to his elbows, the sparks of it further slithering and expanding into the mainline of his neurons. 

Billy’s eyes rolled back from the sweet pull of it as he moaned into the thick melt of the air. The shower did little to swallow up the low sound of his voice from around the fingers— _Steve’s_ voice, choking on pleasure, which only made Billy cry out louder, pressing his body harder against the tile to keep himself standing. Billy had fantasized so many times about Steve’s hands; he purposely sat right behind and to the left of Steve in English, just so he could think about his fingers sinking into him, including his mouth, sucking them into his throat, exploring the webbing and knuckles with his tongue. And now he knew just what that would feel like for Steve, that he would _like_ it, more than most people generally would on a purely sensory level. 

The sheer idea of it made everything feel that much more frantic as he picked up speed. Billy’s left hand flew over the hard and heavy weight between his thighs, stroking with increased vigor as he continued to suck at Steve’s fingers until the nails hit the recesses of his throat, testing the surprisingly flexible limits of Steve’s gag reflex until his body was choking on it. And yet, despite the accelerated frenzy, there was still something missing. He couldn’t quite place what it was. Billy knew what *his* body would need to push him over, but this wasn’t his body, nor was it that same sensory ache. It was something different, something that just wasn’t _enough_ , a deep itch in his veins that Billy couldn’t quite tap and scratch. He wanted to know, so very badly, what would send Steve’s body soaring. The building itch became psychosomatic until it was literal, until Billy needed to pull the fingers from his throat to scratch deep into his side instinctively. At the raw scrape of the nails across his flesh, Steve’s body lit up and Billy jerked forward on reflex. Billy cursed and did it again, digging in deeper, adding a twisting rake to the skin. 

At the first twinge of what should on most people be pain, Steve’s nerves hummed. The sweet sting of it ricocheted up and back down his spine and Billy knew that was it: Steve’s body was about to come, and Billy was going to get to _feel_ it. Billy pressed his forehead against the cool tile of the wall, Steve’s body curling in further forward as his orgasm built. He watched, looking down in a hungry sort of fascination as Steve’s cock began to twitch as the rest of him pulsed and shuddered. Billy whimpered, a pathetic desperate sound that was swallowed up by the water as he thought about how good the violent twitch and kick of Steve’s cock would feel buried deep inside something tighter and wetter than his fist, the hot spread of it, the vibration—what it might feel like if Steve were to come inside *him*. 

Billy grit his teeth as the orgasm ripped through him, nothing like his own, linear and torn straight from his core. Billy had experienced good orgasms in his life, but better for him always meant longer, waves of sensation that cascaded over him until he was shaking, vision sustaining a bright overwhelming white. Steve, on the other hand, came fast and hard, like blackout hard. Like all the cascades of pleasure Billy’s body fought to draw out had been stacked and compressed on top of each other to hit all at once in a single maximized burst of acute, pure pleasure. 

Billy screamed through it, a single violent shout as the sheer savage force of it took him under, forcing Billy to his knees as he slid down the shower wall, hand still clutching at the tile. “Holy _fuck_ , Harrington,” Billy choked out again, the ragged gasp echoing in the empty room as Billy fought to regain control of his vision, panting heavily into the still hot steam. Billy had just enough energy to pull himself over to the side, leaning against the wall under the water’s cascading rhythm. It took Billy a full fifteen minutes to recover, slumped and still slightly shaking under the gentle warm pressure of the spray. It took another five to dazedly give Steve’s body a cursory wash, and another ten after turning the shower off and toweling down with the largest, fluffiest towel Billy has ever seen in his life, to realize that he’d need a change of clothes, and that he’d need to leave the bathroom to do it. 

And that’s how Billy found himself standing totally naked in Steve Harrington’s bedroom, complete with the newfound intimate and thorough knowledge of what Steve Harrington felt like when he came. Not at all the way Billy had planned it in his more vivid fantasies, since Billy had always, naturally, hoped that if such a miracle were to ever actually occur that *his own* body and Steve’s consciousness would also, you know, be present there too. But once again, Billy Hargrove, the cosmic joke. And yet, it was really hard to care about that—about anything—when Steve’s body had just come so hard he’d nearly _passed out_. Not to mention that Billy knew Steve had probably had even better orgasms in his life than a semi-self-hand job in a shower, and _jesus_ , Billy didn’t have nearly enough brain processing power left to try and deal with that thought. 

Billy set out to locate some clothing instead, focusing on the minor obtainable goals of the moment, and taking in Steve’s space fully for the first time, having saved Steve’s room for last in his little self-guided tour. Steve’s room was kind of a mess. Or rather, a complete and total mess not unlike the leftover remnants of an early-stage hurricane. Clothes and tapes were strewn about the floor, while papers and school books were piled high and haphazardly on the desk. The entire surface area of the walls were collaged with posters and photos of bands, movies, and friends—including, as Billy was not exactly surprised, but still disappointed to see, plenty of pictures of that uptight bitch Wheeler. Billy wasn’t sure what Steve keeping her face up on his wall meant, but he supposed it was kind of worth it for the one shot of Steve laughing, arm slung around Nancy’s shoulder, head tipped back, and his adam’s apple straining against his throat. And yeah, Billy wasn’t about to fault Steve for hanging onto the memories that made him that happy. His stereo, on the other hand—that included a _compact disc player_ in it—sat askew on the shelf, and treating such a fine machine like that was _not_ ok for any reason. Steve was also apparently a closet sugar fiend and kept a well-plenished stash of candy on his dresser, the bright rainbow wrappings of both the unopened and opened pieces mixed together. There were also Christmas lights, _everywhere_ , just as rainbow, garish, and bright as the candy. 

Billy didn’t fault the guy for the lack of desire to pick up his room if there was no one there to make him. Besides, Steve always did strike him as the kind of guy that would toss things anywhere and expect other people to clear away the trash. It was just a little weird then to find that Steve’s closet was impeccably organized, all of the shirts (that weren’t on the floor) pressed on the hangers in matching dry cleaner bags. And yeah, only Harrington would _dry clean_ an all-cotton, machine wash safe t-shirt. Billy kind of wanted to hate him for that, only it was too Steve for it to really actually annoy him. Maybe the Harringtons were the kind of yuppie rich that had people come in and do this kind of thing for them. That would sweep up his room, take his clothes to the cleaners, and hang them in neat ordered rows for him in the closet. Or maybe Steve dry cleaned every item of clothing he owned because he didn’t actually know how to use a washer/dryer. Both of those things were, unfortunately, entirely plausible. 

Despite the rows of clean clothes, plenty of Steve’s selections from earlier in the week had been flung everywhere. Billy noticed the sweatshirt first. An old, worn and gray Michigan State pullover that Steve wore often, which had fallen and tucked itself between the bed and the wall. Billy didn’t know the significance of the shirt to Steve. Everyone knew his father was a Princeton man, who would die before letting himself or anyone he cared about go to a state school. Billy didn’t know why or how Steve had obtained a Michigan one specifically, but he was pretty sure Steve wore it as often as he did as a certain kind of “fuck you” to his father’s values and expectations. It’s what Billy would have done in Steve’s place. It wasn’t entirely unlike Billy’s own clothing choices, the cut of his shirts and the fade of his denim always pressing a little bit harder against the line his own father had set for him.

Billy leaned over the bed to pluck the sweatshirt from it, relishing how soft the fabric felt as he brought it to his face, inhaled the scent of it. Embarrassment flushed through him, but he couldn’t quite regret it when the smell of Steve hit his nostrils, filled and curled the electric rush into his lungs. He pulled it on over his head, running a hand through Steve’s hair. Billy had no idea how Steve styled it, but he could at least try and keep Steve’s hair from going flat for him. He took a moment to feel the weight of the shirt on his arms, the woven embrace of it. He had seen Steve in it enough times before to be able to look down at the worn cuff of the sleeve and picture Steve in it. Enough times to just focus on that hole in his sleeve where Steve had worked the threads bare and open with nervous fingers and imagine that Billy was still in his own body but wearing Steve’s shirt. Like he had the right to, like Steve had given it to him. 

At some point, it sunk in through the blissful haze how ridiculous he probably looked, still dazed and standing in the middle of Steve’s bedroom in nothing but a sweatshirt with no pants. Like he was some sort of Saturday morning cartoon animal, or that bear from the books his mother used to read him when he was really little—the one that had liked honey. Billy scavenged the room for the first pair of pants he could find, an equally soft pair of sweats that had landed haphazardly over Steve’s desk chair along with a single sock. Steve may or may not have strong feelings about Billy going commando in a pair of his sweats, but Billy figured it was _Steve’s_ dick, so it was probably fine. Better than rifling through the guy’s underwear drawer at any rate, which Billy was only resisting for his own sake more than Harrington’s, because once again, a single drop. He had seen how well _that_ had gone. 

He still felt shaky from touching Steve, and he knew the sick guilt of that would only get worse later. When the post-haze of Steve’s mind-eviscerating orgasm finally worked its way out of his veins and he would have to really think about what he’d just _done_. How he’d have to admit to himself how much he wanted to do it again—how he _would_ do it all over again if presented with the same choices, because he was weak—as weak, and pathetic, and disgusting as his father was always warning him that he was. And molesting Steve’s body like the sick, bent pervert Billy obviously was, was bad enough. Billy refuses to be _that_ guy that can’t help but touch, and maybe take, a pair of Steve’s underwear. Billy wouldn’t put it past himself; he wasn’t always great with reigning in his impulses. Case-in-point: coming all over Steve’s body, and then also, The Sweatshirt. 

Dressed enough for the night, Billy took in another survey of Steve’s room, trying to breathe through the rising panic and focus on the physical present. The chaotic state of the room didn’t exactly help his determined attempts to combat the influx of adrenaline. It was fine if Steve liked his room this way; it had personality, felt lived-in and nice. But it made Billy nervous, the bright space overshadowed by too many years of expectations that Billy’s space remain neat to the standards of military precision: pressed clothes, regulation bed corners, and micro-scrubbed surfaces. At some point Billy had learned that it was best to minimize the spread of himself to the max, keeping only the necessities in his room in ways that couldn’t as easily become a distraction or a weapon. Or worse yet, a reminder that Billy _lived_ in that house, either to himself, or for Neil to see and remember that yeah, Billy still lived under his roof and was therefore his _responsibility_. There was also something comforting in the contingency of it. That if Billy ever had, or really needed, the opportunity to finally flee, then he wouldn’t need to take the time to pack. Billy sighed, surveying the contrary demolition of Steve’s room one last time, before he scraped all the clothes balled on the carpet together into a pile and went off in search of a washer. 

**  
Whether or not they used it, the Harrington’s washer/dryer set was brand new and top of the line, some new-fangled Edgestar combo unit that could wash and dry all at once, some real “way of the future” type shit; it even had its own designated room. The equipment was fancier than Billy had ever used, but he had dealt with enough of a variety of the machines at the laundromats in California to figure them out. With the clothes in the wash, he went in search of the kitchen, filled with the renewed and vicious pangs of hunger once the initial spikes of panic had settled a bit and Steve’s cock wasn’t, at least for the moment, taking up all his attention. 

The vast, unused kitchen reminded Billy of Steve’s closet, with rows and rows of neatly ordered boxes and cans stocked inside the pantry. The kitchen was clean, however, to the point of being pristine, which after the state of Steve’s room either confirmed that the Harringtons did indeed use some sort of maid service, or indicated that Steve simply just didn’t use it. The overflow of takeout containers in the industrial-sized fridge maintained the ambiguity, but at least suggested that Steve did manage to keep himself sustained and alive without a stove. Despite the apparent lack of use of the kitchen’s appliances, Billy had never seen so much food in one place before outside of a supermarket. The Harringtons had an insane amount of reserves, like the Russians could still drop the bomb any day now and heaven forbid they didn’t have enough food on hand to host a dinner party for all of Hawkins before the Cold War ended in flames. The lines of Campbell's soup selections were the closest to his reach, so Billy grabbed a random can off the shelf. Heating it might taste better, but sometimes convenience and hunger took precedent, like today, so Billy simply located an opener and a spoon and took the can with him to eat while he explored the rest of the house. 

That was how he found the living room, or the front room, or the den, or the parlor, or whichever one of the surplus rooms it was towards the back of the house that had a couch, a fireplace, and _That_ picture—a large, almost austere, portrait of Steve hanging above the mantel. It looked professional, hand painted from oils that made Steve’s eyes look sad and cold. Steve was younger in it—maybe 12 or 13—still a little baby faced, and yet also still oddly old in the way he sat, and the way he appeared already wary and resigned. He had been adorned in some sort of crested burgundy blazer for the sitting. Billy didn’t recognize the crest’s seal, but Tommy had told Billy once that Steve was initially supposed to go to some boarding prep school outside of Chicago like his father, which seemed like the most plausible explanation. According to Tommy, however, Steve had managed to convince his father last minute after months of failed arguments about how important a public education was in the ways of “the people.” And that was why Steve was at their high school— _to observe the peasantry_ —so they had made him their king. 

Billy didn’t exactly have fond memories of his childhood, but he had never had to do _that_ \--sit perfectly still and stoic for hours as some craftsmen or whatever slowly shaded his face in. That was just _weird_ , and wholly unnecessarily in an age of Kodak and cameras. Not to mention a goddamn life-sized portrait above the mantel was a little grandiose, made all the more so by the even odder presence of more Christmas lights, the all-white kind that only the truly classy used, strung up around the walls, complete with what appeared to be two lawn ornament reindeer commercially constructed from mesh wire and light. Rich people were *weird*. 

Billy plopped down on the white leather couch in the center of the room, munching on spoonfuls of cold congealed soup as he stared at the uncanny replication of the young Steve Harrington. The day had been long, but the dusk had traveled through the sky quickly, already settling into inky shadows that crept slowly in to fill the crevices of the room. Billy watched the shapes form on the wall, stretching like branches as if the forest was scratching to get in. He wasn’t about to let it. Billy didn’t go into the Hawkins woods if he could help it. He had risked the quarry a handful of times over the summer before school had started, since there were always just enough people loitering about the clearing to feel a sense of false safety in numbers, but the woods, something about that woods, was wrong. 

Billy had spent enough of his life among the wolves that he could sense predators, dangerous situations, even the off-vibe of walking into a silence that was just a little too quiet, a little too unsafe. And that was what the Hawkins woods had told him from the moment he had tried to step inside it: it was a too silent and still forest full of something wicked. Billy had no idea what, but he trusted his gut enough to not go near it. He had felt it again today with Steve walking around within it; it gave him the same urge for flight, set his teeth on edge. Just like it had that night he had come looking for Max at the Byers, the only thing he could clearly recall about that night: pulling into the drive and sensing the wrong of the woods, like it had bled onto the driveway, ratcheting up all his instincts to either flee or fight. And just like he had felt it the night before, a dangerous pulse, like some invisible force had been breathing down his neck by the fire. It was so distracting that he had almost missed Steve’s face appear between the trees and disappear just as quickly. Billy had taken the oath to stay away from Steve, but he just hadn’t been able to shake the feeling of the woods, how even the borderline felt too much like the precipice of any room his father sat quietly inside, waiting for him to come home, to come in. That tightening of his stomach, the prickle of his skin: his intuition had kept him alive thus far and he wasn’t going to question it. 

He had fled the fire to run after Steve, all his instincts telling him that whatever was out there was even worse than whatever monster Billy Hargrove was himself. Billy could still recall the panic he felt when he had seen Steve go down, the anxious rush that something was closing in. He remembered trying to get Steve to breathe as his own lungs constricted, and touching his skin, how soft Steve’s hair was under his fingers. He remembered the line in the dirt that signaled the edge of the forest, how much he regretted thinking there had been enough bodies to keep them safe, like so many flocks of prey awaiting some new form of slaughter. And he could see that very border again from the window right here and now, right where the expanse of the Harrington lawn met the wood. The property lights around the house lit up the grass, but outside their radius, the darkness was knocking, pressing in. 

Billy double checked the lock on the back door. It was sliding glass and wouldn’t do a thing, but the ritual made him feel gratified for a moment, in control for the span of a heartbeat before the logic of the situation slid back in. Steve lived here. In this illuminated and vulnerable fortress encroached by darkness and invisible but wicked things. Billy didn’t know if Steve could sense it too, if he too was wary and afraid of the wood that surrounded the house on all sides. Billy hoped for Steve’s sake that he didn’t. He probably didn’t; there was no way Steve could sense the woods and still live inside it. It would have driven him crazy, surely, if he had spent every night here alone with it for however long his parents have been away. 

Billy grabbed the throw blanket that hung over the back of the couch and pulled it around his shoulders, wrapping it in close. The warm dull glow of the Christmas lights were vaguely soothing, casting little artificial beams of twinkling starlight around the living room. Maybe Steve had put them there on purpose after all, to give the atmosphere some warmth. It was purely psychological; it wasn’t like their cheap plastic bulbs would keep anyone safe, but they did make Billy feel better. Even though the house kept making all these noises: the creaks and groans of large sheet lumber and the sharper whistle of wind over the clean-cut corners of the siding. At least when Billy’s own house made sounds, he knew their origins. And here he never thought there would come a day when knowing the weighted crack of wood was "just" his father’s boots on the floor coming down the hallway would somehow be the more comforting option—but there was something to be said about “the devil you know.” Billy knew nothing about the devils in those woods, but he knew he didn’t want to meet them. He wondered what Harrington would say if he could see him now, somehow both perched and crouched in the corner of his living room sofa; what he would do with the information that Billy Hargrove was afraid of the dark. Not that that was strictly true. Ever since he was a kid, Billy had known it wasn’t really the darkness that could hurt a person, but that said nothing of the people and things that moved around inside it. 

Billy wasn’t really all that sure what to do. He wanted to continue his exploration, absolutely positive that a family like the Harringtons _had_ to have secrets worth finding stowed away somewhere. But the house was so big, too austere to snoop around in now that night had fallen and the urge to watch his back in the shadows had descended. This particular room did allow him the widest survey of the lawn to keep an eye on the woods, which he felt like he should be doing for whatever reason. The other part of him really wanted to go back to Steve’s room, to be in his space, in his bed. To wrap himself up in the warmth of the sheets and breathe him in again. That seemed like a special level of self-torture though. And a little pathetic, and maybe a little creepy. It also would do nothing to help his still determined resolve to return to leaving Steve alone if Billy ever got his own body back, which Steve seemed oddly confident would eventually happen. And yet, the old, large grandfather clock ticked by the hour too loudly, the white twinkle of the lights casting strange shapes on Steve’s portrait over the mantel, and it all just felt a little bit much—a little too gothic and ghastly. 

Billy shuffled back into the kitchen and put the soup can on the counter. There was no one to tell him to throw it away; he could _leave_ it there, a small minor rebellion. Billy stared at the can, daring it to say something. It’d didn’t, of course, but he was already worked up enough that the idea of leaving it, of taking that one minuscule opportunity for domestic defiance, faltered. Defeated, and utterly disgusted with himself because of it, he threw the can in the trash, harder than he needed to—harder than he should—gathered the laundry and headed up the stairs. 

***  
Billy was halfway through folding and shelving Steve’s clothes, letting the full-spectrum glow of the Christmas lights trick him into a simulated comfort from the rest of the house, when he found it—a book tucked into the third shelf of the closet. It wasn’t particularly hidden by any means, but it was still a strange place to keep it. Even stranger, the worn cover embossed with the Hawkins’ school seal and date suggested it was a yearbook, from what Billy assumed would have been Steve’s sophomore year. Someone at some point had scrawled in marker across the front of it, _“The King’s Book of Subjects and Conquests: a Treatise of The Highest Court”_.

Billy flipped the book open, scanning through the pages. It was a yearbook alright, only it was something else too. Each picture of the sophomore and freshman class, most of the juniors, and even some of the seniors had a number by each one, which didn’t take too much deductive reasoning to figure out they were some kind of ranking scale on a level of 1 to 10. Alongside their numbers, many photos had a check mark, accompanied by a short description that was further signed off with either an “SH,” “TH,” “JS,” “JK,” or “KK,” which Billy could only assume meant Steve and Tommy, along with Jason Sanders and the “wonder twins,” James and Kevin Keller, all from the basketball team—the elite line-up pre-Billy. 

The fact that King Steve had some kind of crass Bang Book wasn’t entirely surprising after the stories Billy had heard. Billy had never seen that side of Steve, but plenty of tales of his Great Reign still circulated the masses. And _masses_ was really the term to use. King Steve in his formative years had been _busy_ , his initials scrawled all over the book, with an apparent preference for the then junior class. Jason, who was a lot like Billy on the court: loud, stocky, aggressive—a real fucking asshole—had taken on most of the Sophomores as his hunting ground. Billy already knew most of Jason’s castoffs though, because they were all the kind of girls with the kind of self-esteem and daddy issues to rival Billy’s own, all of whom would inevitably try to flit from Jason to him at the very next party the second they’d been dropped. The fact that Jason couldn’t deal with his own leftovers was really a major inconvenience, one that Billy kind of low-key hated Jason for. But it at least always made Billy appear in public like he was constantly draped and dripping in willing pussy without trying, so he’d never really pushed him on it. 

The Keller twins were interchangeable—literally. Void of any discernible personalities of their own, let alone from each other. Pretty and dumb, excessively so in both, they made quite a pair on the court, and, Billy saw now with a raised eyebrow, quite the team off it. It seemed a lot of their conquests had been in common, and Billy wasn’t so convinced those were all achieved at separate times. Billy couldn’t blame the girls in the photos. His masochistic heart might belong to Steve Harrington, but that didn’t mean he would ever turn down getting double-teamed by the double-vision of two boys that pretty. He was, after all, human. And finally, Tommy hadn’t been quite so prolific as the others, but he had put in a fair run himself. And Carol had hearts around her name beside the signed TH, so at least Tommy had still been “romantic” even when cheating on her with an alarming number of freshmen. The whole thing was kind of gross, seeing Steve’s past so callously quantified, the people reduced to numbers and sex acts. Wheeler’s freshman year photo, however, complete with frizzy bangs and a horrifyingly ruffled blouse, had been ranked a “6 with potential,” but had no further checks or initials, so the book was outdated, possibly no longer an actively kept track record and more a forgotten relic of a younger stage. 

What was mildly interesting, however, was how there weren’t just initials scrawled next to the _girls_. “SH” in particular had ranked a fair handful of guys on how well they had sucked or stroked him off, the best apparently being some then senior named Brett who had graduated that same year. According to the side note, Brett had been awarded bonus points for how much of Steve he could fit in his mouth, a rare gem. Billy wondered with a certain tinge of smugness what that would have made *him*. Granted, the first nine inches were a respectable feat for anyone, but Billy knew that he could do better, that with enough determination and focus he could happily swallow Steve whole. And there was at least a time, apparently, when Steve might have taken up the offer, or at least, not rejected it solely because Billy wasn’t some pretty, wide-eyed and simpering chick. That kind of knowledge was interesting, certainly, and some grade-A, jerk-off fantasy material, but it wasn’t the kind that was about to offer him any misguided hope. Billy wasn’t naive enough for that. And even if he was, the sinking feeling in his gut at seeing the block texted “QUEER” and “FAG” next to several of the photos (including Brett’s) in both Tommy and Jason’s handwriting did the work for him. 

Billy knew that just because Tommy and Steve both might have let a few guys here and there throat them, it didn’t make them gay any more than a woman’s mouth made Billy straight. Billy knew this, because Billy knew plenty of guys like Steve and his friends back in LA: pretty and preppy that would do just about anything with a warm mouth. Guys with the kind of privilege where simply _taking_ something was never the problem, * _wanting_ * it was. Pretty boys with trust funds and too much time, who chased the emptiness with all the highs that booze, and drugs, and sex had to offer with little discrimination, because an object was an object, especially if it could blow your mind. 

Billy had hoped that he had seen something in Steve, that whatever it was that made Steve seem different than the others would also make him understanding, make him _safe_ , even when straight. But the nauseous feeling rising in his throat curled with warning at the bright markered slurs across the pages, the sunny expression in Brett's senior portrait marred by the ugly, cruel words of the guys who had used him--hell, for all Billy knew, had maybe even "tossed him out" and "took out the trash" after. Or, more likely, had their _maids_ do it for them. Billy had hoped Steve was different, but he'd been wrong before. And yeah, Billy knew guys like Steve. His house, his clothes, his car, the ‘book’ with checked names, rated faces, and “queer” scrolled down the sides of the ones they must have found _‘wanting’_ : Steve was Beverly Hills in the wrong zip code. 

And that was what made Steve downright dangerous. Because Billy _knew_ boys like Steve, had known them all his life. But he had always been so careful to go outside the school walls to cruise, stuck to older men in bars and alleys that didn’t give a fuck who his father was, and had just as much to lose if they told anyone. And yet, he apparently still never learned. It had been easier to keep forgetting himself earlier with Steve when Steve wasn’t in his own body. When Billy had, in fact, been looking at *his own* body as he teased and pushed at Steve. Normally Steve’s face was too distracting, just as dangerous to look at, like looking into a very cold and breathtaking sun: bright, beautiful, and chillingly unresponsive to anything Billy had to say. It always threw Billy off his game, but he was a little more relaxed looking at *himself*, like he was only pretending to flirt with Steve in his bedroom mirror. 

But Billy must have pushed too far, because Steve had straight up told him this morning quite clearly that he didn’t swing Billy’s way, using a sports metaphor of all things, _‘not playing for the same team,’_ so that he could really drill in how straight he was or whatever. Usually the crushing disappointment in that confirmation would have been the principle emotional take-away from such a reveal, which it had been. After all, Steve had been firm, but kind enough about it. And yet, now, the idea that Steve somehow *knew* that Billy was— _what_ he was—and had no problem casually throwing it down out loud and in the open as the hard line between them was terrifying. Billy thought that he had been so careful, or at least careful enough for plausible deniability. But no, in finally reflecting over it now, and with the cumulative shock of the whole day finally melting and sinking in, it finally and fully hit Billy with a sudden, sick wave that Steve _knew_. And Billy had no idea what Steve might do with that information, if he would choose to destroy him like he could. 

There were too many pieces of Steve that Billy just couldn’t quite assemble, some portion of the picture he was missing. Even with everything laid out in front of him, Billy still couldn't connect the Steve from today with the "SH" who had signed the book. Boys with this much casual hate, didn't usually smile like Steve did sometimes at boys like Billy: like he was _worth_ looking at, even if it annoyed Steve to do so. Pretty rich boys like Steve, left unsupervised in a big house, who knew a parent’s love through their money, and their friend’s loyalty through admiration, didn't usually leave that house unused and empty. The disillusioned elite, who might grow bored with the life and let the loneliness sink in, was a common enough thing. But they usually didn’t withdraw in the way Steve apparently had, leaving those friends and highs behind without having something else already lined up to fill the void instead. Boys like Steve, who had their pick of bodies across their “kingdoms,” who took those bodies, used them up, and recorded them as cold statistics, didn’t just rebound a breakup with _no one_ , no matter how much that most recent relationship “changed” them. Wheeler was kind of hot for a chick: slanted mouth, no hips, flat chest, and sharp features with soft, brown hair, so yeah, Billy could get the appeal. But he doubted Wheeler had some fundamentally personality changing pussy under those baggy jeans of hers. There _had_ to be something else. Boys like Steve were predictable, but Steve himself, for no discernible reason, just wasn’t.

Since the sun disappeared at insanely early hours in the Midwest in the looming month of winter, it wasn’t actually all that late yet. The clock on Steve’s desk read only 8:06 pm, but Billy was exhausted. There was just too much to worry about in Hawkins, a constant vortex of dangerous and mixed emotions. And he never really fully slept in his own house, sneaking in late or sneaking out early whenever he could get away with it. And despite all the danger of it, the bed still called to him—Steve’s bed. After seeing the book, Billy didn’t know how Steve would feel about a _queer_ climbing in between his sheets, even if he wasn’t in it. Especially one who couldn’t seem to keep their hands off his dick. And yet, surely that’s where Steve would assume Billy would sleep, right? Billy knew Steve was likely sleeping in *his* bed. There weren’t a lot of other surplus options at the Hargrove house. Steve’s house, however, had options, plenty of them. But Steve’s bed looked so comfortable; it was comfortable, Billy could still feel the crisp silken cotton on his cheek from waking up there that morning. That seemed so long ago now. He was so tired. 

Billy went for it, all caution to the wind as he sank down and deep into the mattress and sighed out a shaky exhale. He pulled the blankets up around his shoulders, burying himself into the warmth of Steve’s scent, comforted by it immediately even as the thought of it, the danger of what he was really doing, spiraled in his stomach. He had _touched_ Steve, got himself off, or Steve’s body off, or both, whatever, to the feel of him. He was here in Steve’s bed, smelling his sheets, and finding comfort in Steve’s old worn sweatshirt because he had seen Steve in it so many times before, because it smelled like him too. Billy was sick, a bent perversion, a _faggot,_ and he was alone in that. He always had been. And worst of all, Steve _knew_ somehow. Not about the touching, or the sheets, or the sweatshirt, but he knew what Billy was, had pretty much told him so. It was truly baffling how one person could offer him so much hope and comfort, and yet induce such raw exposed fear at the same time. But Billy's been carrying his torch around for Steve for so long, burning so very brightly, that it wasn't like he could just blow it out, just like that. Something had worked its way deep into Billy until he could no longer let Steve go. He would wholly and so very willingly forgive any of the things Steve might have said or done in his past if he no longer meant them—just like Billy hoped that Steve could someday forgive Billy for his. And even if Steve meant every word. If Steve really did think that Billy was less than _nothing_ , Billy still wasn't sure how he'd even begin to let Steve go, was still, apparently, convinced somewhere deep down that Steve was different. That he was better than that, because he's _Steve_. And Steve had power over him, plain and simple, in every way possible, and there was nothing Billy could do about that now. 

He’d likely feel differently about the whole predicament in the morning, but even the usual rising waves of panic seemed mollified for the moment, entirely too numb and too tired to care, soothed by the soft embrace of Steve's space. Billy had lived through damage control before; he would just have to deal with the fallout of whatever came. Luckily, Steve was especially unlikely to out Billy while he was still in Billy’s body, because as simple, sad, and lonely as Steve seemed sometimes, Billy knew Steve wasn’t actually stupid, not at all, and he also knew that Steve didn’t have a death wish, not an active one at least. And all the trouble lurking for Billy at such a reveal would happen to *Billy’s body* first. So Billy still had some time. Steve’s body, as ironic as it was, was right now the main thing shielding Billy from Steve himself. Also, Steve might know _what_ Billy wanted, but if Steve’s little fishing expedition earlier was anything to go by, he didn’t know _who_ Billy wanted specifically, which was a lot less ammo to be able to use against him. If Steve tried to out him on it, use it against him, write it in his book, or spread it around the school, Billy would deny it: “man up” and let one or two of Jason's castoffs "prove" otherwise if he has to—if it will keep him _safe_. But Billy would take this now, just for tonight, this fleeting gift of Steve’s body to be in Steve’s space, warm and alone where no one could touch him except Steve's welcomed, phantom presence. Just this once, a precious rare moment where he felt safe and free. Steve never had to know.


	5. Compound Engagement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Working his hands up beneath the worn fabric of the shirt, Steve reached the hard, slight swell of his pecs where he idly twisted Billy’s nipples between his fingertips. The reaction to his fingers was quick, a rapid flutter of nerve endings that tingled down his spine as his hips bucked curiously upwards on reflex. So Steve did it again, pinching with just the slightest bit of sharper pressure. The feeling flushed through him again and Steve groaned, the deep vibrations of Billy’s vocal chords oscillating slightly as the nerves beneath his skin hummed in radiating waves. Fuck, Billy’s body was _sensitive_. Steve moaned again at that acquired knowledge and the ideas that knowledge supplied: The things Steve could _do_ with that. The things Steve could do to Billy’s body— to _Billy_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah… apparently this Steve touches Billy’s body a lot more than Billy touched his and has a lot less (read zero) issues with that. This is mostly on account of the general thought that Billy would actually be more hesitant to violate boundaries (both body and privacy) because 1. He knows what it’s like to be touched without asking. And, 2. He’s grown up with his sexuality as something that has to be repressed/is a constant source of shame and fear, and that kind of shit can effect a person on every level, including how they feel after and about an orgasm.  
> The show in its first season seems to imply that sex for King Steve, on the other hand, at least pre-Nancy, was some kind of bacchanal orgy of teen hormones. So basically (this) Steve has never had to think about sex other than that he likes it. So the question of whether he should touch Billy, really isn’t even a question. (So I guess **take whatever consent warnings** you need to from that? Steve touches Billy’s body _everywhere_ without permission to do so, per se. But Billy isn’t in it at the time, and if he had been, he would have been totally all about it anyway. Shits complicated. Just apply the general dubcon scale of body swap to everything that follows. But then again, if we are going to body swap them and *not* have them touch each other, what are we doing here really...).

Steve drove back to Billy’s elated by the phantom heat of Billy’s words. After searching for it all day long, right at the end, he’d finally seen it: Billy pushing the limits—actually pushing—like the total fucking asshole that was still in there somewhere. The one that had no problem giving Steve shit. The one with all that fire in him that just made Steve want to rip him apart. 

Steve didn’t know what Billy’s house was generally like in the evenings, but he was hoping that there would be at least some window of privacy, because he needed to get his hands on Billy and rub one out as soon as possible. Maybe pull off first hard and fast and then really take his time, do a little exploring and get leisurely acquainted with the spread of him. Billy had that full length mirror in his bedroom and Steve was going to _use_ it.

**  
Billy’s house was _not_ empty when Steve arrived, which, ok, was probably to be expected, but _still_. Steve’s disappoint, however, was soon rapidly replaced with an even more unusual and pressing problem. There were people in the house. The inconvenience of that aside, the whole concept at this point was a little awkward. After all, it had been so long since Steve had been with other people just milling about his home space that he didn’t quite know what to do. And even back when there had been others around more often, *his* house was at least big enough to spread out in. Billy’s house was small. A single-level half ranch left over from the fifties. No smaller than anyone else’s on the street, but still claustrophobic compared to the space Steve had grown accustomed to his entire life. Every single room that counted had been shoved into the main level: a front door that entered directly into the living room, the kitchen tucked around the corner, and a hallway expanding down to the right that was lined with the doors of the house’s three bedrooms. 

The style was a rather popular one for middle Indiana. Steve had been to enough parties over the years to know the general layout, and had snuck in and out of enough windows after dark to know the benefits of a first-story bedroom. But he had never had to live in one--to figure out what to do with his body when he was just supposed to exist in the space. It felt too strange to just idle about the common room. Especially since that was also where Billy’s father seemed to favor, sitting back in a recliner just to the right of the room’s center, watching both the TV and the door. And so upon entering the house, after Steve had spared a quick glance Neil’s way (who appeared too absorbed in whatever game was on TV to care) he headed straight for Billy’s room. Steve fortified himself as best he could inside it, clicking the door shut behind him as he headed over to flop down on the mattress. The sounds of the house still filtered in through the walls in a mixture of muffled voices: Susan’s voice high and soft on the phone in the kitchen, Max singing brash and a little off-key to something on the radio inside the room across the hall, and the droning of commentators on the TV in the living room, intercut by Billy’s father occasionally shouting at a bad play. It wasn’t exactly the ideal soundtrack to stroke off to. 

Steve did what he could to tune out the noise as he looked down at Billy’s body spread out on the bed. The natural light had not yet fully faded in the room, making the view different from the morning, something that Steve could study with a keener eye. Or perhaps that was just because he actually knew where he was now--was focused less on adrenaline and survival and more on all those muscles. 

The room was cold—even colder than it had been that morning. The world outside finally bending to the oncoming winter and the house doing surprisingly little to keep the evening frost at bay. Steve had never been a fan of the cold, but there were certain things worth ignoring in favor of getting Billy’s body naked, and the weather was one of them. So Steve simply shifted deeper into the crisp chill of the sheets and pulled at Billy’s shirt until it slipped a little higher up his skin, smoothing his hand over Billy’s stomach as he shivered. His ribs still fucking _hurt_. The constant ache and throb courtesy of the cracks and bruises just hadn’t gone away. That was a shame too, that Billy’s body really felt the pain. That he processed the lingering aches of violence as something unpleasant and unwelcome. The last time Steve had really bruised—an occurrence courtesy of Billy, actually—the damage had taken days to heal. Only on Steve's body, the leftover deep purple patches had felt tender and sweet, hummed softly under his fingers whenever he brushed over them. Spiked into something static and electric when he dug in a little deeper to press. Steve experimentally dug his fingers into the dark blue bruise on Billy’s side and a sharp jolt sliced through him that drew out more of a hiss than a moan. So yeah, Billy’s body apparently just felt pain when it should. Which was incredibly unfortunate for Billy, given the circumstances. 

Steve could work with that though. His years pre-Nancy had been quite the education. Steve had a long list of things he _wasn’t_ great at, but sex wasn’t on it. He’d started young. It wasn’t particularly hard to get laid in Hawkins, especially during the golden age of the sleepover years. Even still, Steve had long summers and overnight camps to thank for the majority of his early foundations. Like any proper member of the upper-middle class, he had spent his warmer months in manicured forests for the idle rich. And summer camps filled with lazy, heat-swollen days with others whose parents hadn’t wanted to drag their children along to their vacation homes in St. Barts or see them for the extended hours without school as a buffer were a youthful hedonist’s paradise. Kids at camp got bored; _Steve_ got bored. They’d filled the time together. When he got back to Hawkins that first summer, Steve had entered the seventh grade knowing way more than most boys his age. A few shared stories of his exploits and a generous handful of demonstrations, and Steve had secured himself as a veritable idol—a living legend to all those that hadn’t had the luxury of cabins left unsupervised in the hazy quiet of August afternoons.

His mother had (unrelatedly) sent him to a therapist a year later after she read in some women’s magazine that it was in fashion to talk to your children about their feelings. That was one of the things his mother was good at: paying other people to do the things she didn’t want to do. Steve hadn’t talked much about his feelings to Dr. “call-me-Robert” Threadgood either. But he did learn after he had tried— _and failed_ —to seduce his therapist that he maybe had some intimacy and abandonment issues that left him trying to stuff all the voids with pleasure—or something. And when Steve stopped going when said therapist declined Steve’s generous offer to throat him, Steve had also learned that he maybe didn’t deal all that well with rejection. 

Steve still failed to see how that was exactly a problem, but whatever. That all just seemed like basic common sense. No one liked rejection. Steve didn’t always love being alone and he had found a way to get people to flock around him, to want him for something. He had value. He wanted something; they wanted something, and everyone felt good. Sex felt good. He _liked_ sex. So, like, fuck his therapist. Or rather, his therapist could go fuck _himself_ then, if he didn’t want to fuck him. Even though Threadgood _should_ want to fuck him and was totally missing out because Steve was _good_. And he was versatile. Over the years (Threadgood withstanding), Steve had experienced enough different bodies’ likes and needs to know how to fulfill a range of them. He had acquired a wide set of skills. Skills which he had then learned to finesse into something even more sensitive and sweet with Nancy. Steve was good at it—great even. He knew what he liked and how to get it and how to get his partner there. It was something Steve was proud of. It gave him confidence. And people liked confidence. It drew them towards him, opened them up, and the cycle continued. 

So yeah, he knew how to be _nice_ when he needed to be. It was just that Steve wasn’t always quick to offer that kind of treatment after the Jenny Taylor fiasco of sophomore year. The wrong display of kindness could easily be taken the wrong way; too much kindness to the wrong people and they wouldn’t just flock but _linger_ after. Too many people took kindness as some sort of promise and would offer Steve empty promises in return. So Steve had made it an unofficial rule to only be truly kind to those he didn’t mind staying around for a little while. And not many people made that list. There weren’t many people that were worth taking that kind of risk for: of opening himself up to getting attached to when they would all inevitably just leave him. But he could be kind to Billy. Steve would do that for him, would be so very very gentle around any of the pieces that hurt. 

And despite the hard, rough exterior that was Billy Hargrove, Steve could even picture it: making Billy _yield_ to him. It wouldn’t be easy, but that was always the best kind of chase. And Steve had always loved earning the bodies that were a challenge to win. Whether they were bodies like Nancy’s that were shy and reluctant, or those like Billy’s: technically bigger— _stronger_. Men who despite their strength and size could be coaxed into allowing Steve to take the lead. The thought of it simmered under his skin. How he would push Billy back onto the bed, stroking him careful and tender with soft lips and whispers until the rough grates of his walls melted, his thighs coaxed open and his eyelids clenched shut. Or how Steve would bend him over to lick the salt and sweat off his skin, trace the ridges of muscle and the bones of his spine until he reached his ass, worked him open on his tongue. How he could eat Billy out for minutes, hours—however long it took with Steve’s forearm pressed at the base of his spine to anchor him down before Billy stopped snarling and pushing and just relaxed into it. How he would maybe even _plead_ then for Steve to give him more with a little hitch or hiccup to his breath, fingers and face curled into the sheets. 

Yeah, treating Billy softly wouldn’t be a problem, but getting Billy to actually ever _be_ soft enough himself to let Steve do it, that was a different sort of story. Billy had always been an asshole. Snide, unyielding, and inaccessible in ways that made it abundantly clear he wasn’t looking to just bend over and say “please.” And yet, there was just something about Billy. Steve had seen it more earlier today than ever before. It was a side poorly patched and hidden, but it was there all the same: a side grooved and chipped with something anxious and unsure. Billy would advance, engage, and parry with Steve all day long, and yet, he always seemed to pull back right before the thrust. It was an act. Billy ran around wrapped in an aura of menace and aggression, but he didn’t really bite. And what was more, Steve was starting to fully understand how little ground his own previous return strategy of biting or swinging first could actually gain him. From the feel of it, Billy and his body had been hurt enough. He had perhaps even grown too accustomed to just how much that hurt had become a constant white noise in the background of his life. From what Steve could now gather, Billy’s body knew the intimacy of pain too frequently without any real counterpoint or reprieve. Billy wouldn’t ever bow to pain. Certainly not to Steve. And despite how often Billy seemed to be looking for a fight, winning one might not be the true way to beat him. Instead, Steve had a growing suspicion that offering something _gentle_ or kind would be Billy’s truer form of kryptonite. That offering Billy _pleasure_ would be the thing that would really bring a guy like Billy Hargrove to his knees.

Steve ran his fingers higher up Billy’s torso, practicing the soft glide of his palms as he swirled them around the base of his ribcage, inching towards his chest. Working his hands up beneath the worn fabric of his shirt, Steve reached the hard, slight swell of his pecs where he idly twisted Billy’s nipples between his fingertips. The reaction to his fingers was quick, a rapid flutter of nerve endings that tingled down his spine as his hips bucked curiously upwards on reflex. So Steve did it again, pinching with just the slightest bit of sharper pressure. The feeling flushed through him again and Steve groaned, the deep vibrations of Billy’s vocal chords oscillating slightly as the nerves beneath his skin hummed in radiating waves. Fuck, Billy’s body was _sensitive_. Steve moaned again at that acquired knowledge and the ideas that knowledge supplied: the things Steve could _do_ with that. The things Steve could do to Billy’s body— to _Billy_. 

Steve could feel the slight warmer flush starting to form on Billy’s skin beneath his hands, the feel of it a striking contrast under his palms when compared to the deep chill of the house. The room was freezing, but Billy’s body was hot, even as it shivered slightly in the chill. Steve took a moment to consider if the room temperature actually was low enough after all to deter him from stripping Billy’s body down _completely_ or not, when a soft knock on the door made the decision for him. The knock came again, followed by Susan’s careful voice calling Billy’s name from the other side. 

Steve sighed, frustrated. “Yeah, hold on--,” he started, scrambling to sit up and pull Billy’s shirt back down when the door crashed open with a much stronger force than necessary. The harsh and sudden invasion didn’t seem like Susan’s personality, and Steve was confused by it for a moment until he took in Billy’s father’s form looming to her right, hand still on the door handle. 

Neil’s eyes met his and Steve immediately recalled the cold, steel gaze of them from earlier that morning. “What’s this door doing shut?” Neil asked, low and deliberate, his eyes scanning over Steve, looking for some sort of answer. “You know I don’t like closed doors in my house, Billy.” 

Neil shook his head, casual, like he had been in that very spot too many times before and still relished taking in the view. “There any reason you need it closed?” He pressed, voice going dark and dangerous. “There anything in particular you think you need to be doing that you need to keep a _‘secret’_?”

Steve thought of the room in his peripheral vision. There was _nothing_ in it. What kind of illicit things could Billy’s father possibly think he’d be doing in here? But Steve answered him anyway with a shrug, “No.”

Neil’s eyes sparked, like he knew some lie that Steve didn’t, “Well then, is there a reason that the rules of this house are so hard to remember?” He sighed, a facade of heavy disappointment, “I’ve long-since had to accept that you aren’t a smart boy, Billy. But surely you are at least smarter than _that_.” Neil paused, considering, “So, Billy, do you think your simple, useless mind can retain the rules? Or do we have to take away the door again?” 

Neil crossed the room in three causal steps, and before Steve could even fully register, let alone answer, the first question, Neil’s fingers had already curled into his jaw, pulling Steve’s direct focus as Neil looked down at him, “You don’t have _secrets_ , boy. Not in this house. Not from me. Do you understand?”

Steve blinked at him. Which wasn’t Steve’s best comeback, to be sure, but it took him a moment to respond, because, seriously, _What the fuck_. And yet, he knew Billy was counting on him, so he gave Neil what he hoped he wanted to hear, “Umm, I understand.” Steve watched Neil’s jaw tick and then remembered, “sir.”

Neil shot him a disapproving look as his fingers dug in a little deeper, “Try it again, Billy. We didn’t hear you clearly.”

Steve fought not to roll his eyes. Jesus this dude was a _dick_. “I understand, *sir*.”

A cold moment passed between them, tonally appropriate for the temperature of the room. Steve wasn’t used to having to wait for people to do anything; it was really pretty tedious. Luckily, Susan broke the silence with her soft falsetto, “Billy?” Neil released his face and Steve turned to her, giving her his attention as he resisted against rubbing the ache of Neil’s fingers from his jaw. She at least deserved his attention, or at the very least, seemed nice enough so far. “Well, the furnace is out again. And we, well, we are going to Pearl’s for the night. It’s supposed to get pretty cold out tonight, so there’s an extra blanket in the closet if you need it.”

Steve just nodded. Whatever a “Pearl’s” was, it was pretty clear Billy wasn’t invited. 

“Don’t coddle him, Susie. He’ll be fine.” Steve was at least somewhat gratified to see that Neil spoke to Susan softer than he did to Billy, almost with something akin to actual affection, like her mousey weak demeanor was something precious. Whatever the affection was, it dissipated just as quickly when Neil turned his gaze back on him, “Won’t you, Billy?” 

“Yeah. .. I mean, Yes, Sir.”

Neil studied his face, still not satisfied with something. “You and I still have some things to talk about. I’ll be back after dinner so that we can clear a few things up.” 

Steve didn’t know how much of Neil’s bullshit he was expected to actually physically respond to; it all became kind of redundant after a while, but he played it safe, “Yes, sir.”

Neil followed Susan out into the hallway, but he turned to take in a last sweep of Billy’s body with his eyes from the doorway and scowled, “Change before I get home. I don’t want to have to talk to you looking like some sort of faggot.” 

Steve bristled at that, honestly too shocked to reply. Jesus, this guy just kept getting _better_.

Neil didn’t wait for a response, however, just walked right off down the hall with Susan in tow, the dull thud of his boots echoing heavily off the hardwood. A few minutes later, the slam of Max’s bedroom door and the squeak of her sneakers followed them out the front door. Steve wondered if Neil’s “no closed doors” policy applied to Max as well. He didn’t think so—was pretty sure Max’s door had been closed across from Billy’s when Steve had gotten back to the Hargroves. It was a weird regulation for a teenage guy. One that Steve didn’t know what to make of, only that it made his skin crawl. 

The moment the Hargrove’s car backed out the drive, Steve slammed the door closed again. Which, ok, was fairly satisfying, not fully, but a bit. Steve was sort of beginning to understand Billy’s need to punch so many things—to leave an impact on *something*. Steve flopped back against the mattress again, the scene playing through his mind. Neil’s slightly forward lean as he had told *Billy*, “ _We need to talk_.” The way he had looped a thumb casually over his belt as he spoke, subtle and threatening. The echoed memory of Billy in the parking lot that morning, asking—hell downright pleading by Billy Hargrove’s standards—for Steve to “just take it,” “don’t fight back,” and to “not make any noise” or whatever, which was going to take a serious amount of willpower on Steve’s end, because this guy deserved to get punched in the face right back. And that was something that Steve personally had no qualms about doing. But Billy had asked and it was Billy’s body and his life, so Steve would try to comply because of—and only because of—that. 

The main problem for the moment, however, was that Steve didn’t know how someone was supposed to just hang around and wait to get their ass kicked. Any and every moment of impact Steve had ever been involved in in his life had been spontaneous and immediate. Springing up with no time to process or think about it other than to just react, hone in, and swing back. The waiting and not even being able to use the time to plan a counterattack strategy since he wasn’t going to use it, was a weird feeling—anxiety inducing from how much it emphasized how little control he had over the situation: of Billy’s body and what happened to it. It also needled at Steve how much Billy’s father must _know_ the effects of his little games, since he kept choosing to wait. Throughout the day, Neil had kept putting off whatever was coming just a little bit longer, but still reminded Billy every chance that he got. 

Steve had been crowned “king” for several reasons. It was a title he’d held for years, and on the list of requirements was a solid grasp over how to mindfuck and manipulate people. Not that he _always_ used those skill sets himself, per se, but he possessed them enough to recognize them in others. High school could be a cruel battle ground. And even the games of the high school hierarchies weren’t as well-honed or vicious as the organized ones Steve had seen first-hand over the course of the last year. Steve had dealt with enough government and military operatives during Will’s disappearance and then the fallout to pick up a few things about professional, psychological warfare. And Neil Hargrove was a military man for a reason. He wasn’t a man of subtlety, but he was effective. If Steve had grown up with that— _like Billy had_ —Steve could understand being afraid of him. But Steve hadn’t grown up molded by Neil’s cruel fists and crueler words, so he wasn’t. 

Steve was, however, pretty sure that this little “day in the life” of Billy’s existence, was probably not even his father’s A-game. As far as Steve could gather, Billy hadn’t actually even done anything all that recently that might truly warrant any sort of corrective discipline or punishment. Whatever Neil had been doing for the past day, he was doing for _fun_. Steve was no stranger himself to the rush that came from having and even exerting power over others, and it was all too easy to abuse that, to just keep pushing when no one pushed back. It was one of the things he liked about Billy so much, that, at least with Steve, Billy _did_ push back. Unlike the rest of the high school, he always refused to bend—had never once let Steve push him down and walk right over him. Out of all Neil Hargrove’s stunning personal qualities, Steve hated Billy’s father the most for taking that from Billy. For diminishing his fight, that bright burning light in him that was _everything_. 

The irritation at the whole situation: Neil, Billy’s life, the whole day of living out some Twilight Zone freakshow, etc. built up inside him until he had to pull himself back off the bed to pace the room. It didn’t help. Steve hated the feeling of frustration and panic, especially when induced by things beyond his control. It wasn’t hard to assume that Billy didn’t like the sick sensation of enforced submission beyond his consent or control that much either. But it was the reflection staring back at Steve from the hanging mirror over the door that oddly confirmed it. There Billy was—or at least his body—with a face Steve had seen many times before but never really understood. It was the face Billy seemed to have a lot of the time. Whenever the crowds thinned out and he had no one to posture for. A far-away stare that looked to the horizon, eyes flickering like they were scanning for an exit that wasn’t there. Steve could only place it now because he could _feel_ it, all the pieces snapping together from looking at Billy through and with his own eyes. It was a face of a boy who was drowning. One who maybe used his fire to push back savage waters, but was drowning all the same. Billy was tired and he was desperate. And none of those things were ever even possibilities in Steve’s mind when he had tried to work Billy out before, too fixated on the inferno, the flames that seemed to burn without cause or reason.

Steve walked over to stand before the glass. The mirror fixed to the back of the door spanned the entire length of the door’s frame, reflecting the near complete length of Billy’s form from his curls to his ankles. Steve looked hard into Billy’s eyes just like he had done in that very spot that morning. His eyes were just as tired and weary in the evening light as they had been in the dawn, but also with that hint of something still very much alive under the blue cresting swell of the irises. That spark that Steve lived for. The one that had shone through even when Billy had been working with Steve’s eyes instead of his own—Steve’s eyes shining back at him in the parking lot just before they parted ways with a fire that was all Billy. The one that Steve wanted to see there all the time. 

Steve bent Billy’s body forwards, just a bit, in order to push his face a breath away from the glass. He traced over the reflection of Billy’s face, the surface of the mirror cold against his fingers. “Who are you?” Steve asked, right out loud into the quiet of the room, even though he knew there was no one there to answer him. But he did that sometimes—speaking into the stillness of empty spaces. Make that a lot of the time, actually. Steve couldn’t recall the precise moment he had taken up the habit of talking to himself, but he was pretty sure it was around the spring of sixth grade. The semester when his parents had left for Italy for eight months and had deemed him old enough to not need a full time housekeeper anymore. Marina had her own family to tend to, so when given the option to cut back her hours, she had taken it. Steve had been truly alone in his house then and the silence had grown and grown over the weeks until he just had to break it with _something_. Hence the conversations to no one, or to himself: synonyms for the same thing, really. 

Billy’s body was at least there now, so Steve spoke to the shell of the boy in front of him. Billy’s eyes were so blue. Steve had known that already, but he’d never had the chance to see them that closely, to really take in all the swirls and flecks of pigment, mixed together like the first melt of frozen waters. After a long moment, he let those eyes fall lower, tracing the curves and angles of Billy’s face. Billy was _beautiful_ , features circular and soft behind the razor edges. Steve blinked and the eyes fell further still, taking in the sloping lines of his neck, thick even there with muscle, all the way down to his shoulders. Almost as if entranced, Steve pulled up at the hem of Billy’s shirt with his free hand until it was off of him, letting the fabric pool at his feet on the floor. Taking his other fingers off the mirror, Steve swept the tips over his body, not as cold as the glass, but still chilled by the dull temperature of the air. But Steve was too preoccupied to let the cold bother him. If anything, the extra bite of it caused Billy’s body to tense in a way that highlighted the muscles with a shivering sort of tension that made Steve salivate. Made him sink his teeth deep into Billy’s plush bottom lip just to see and feel the swell of it. 

In the fading remains of the light, Steve charted the flesh beneath his fingers, taking in every crack and crevice in Billy’s skin. That level of _closeness_ , the thorough invasion of his exploration into Billy’s personal space, was how Steve began to notice the intricacies in the details, remnants of a history of violence. The deep bruising had been readily apparent from a causal distance, spattered as it was in huge patches across his torso. But the closer distance revealed the subtler things as well: the scattering of scars, the shines and gnarls of old burns, and the softer reds of fading abrasions, that were all splashed across his skin from the palms of his hands to the hard curve of his hips, whatever else might continue down to his thighs still covered by the tight denim of his jeans. The gashes, burns, and scars were somehow fascinating to Steve, as they were all things that were generally lost or glossed over by the less subtle, more brazen parts of Billy that stood out most: the deep tan of his skin, the hard, ridged planes of his chest, the deeper dips of his abs.... The marks felt more intimate, somehow, than simply seeing him naked would have been. Turned his skin into something hidden and revealed rather than simply clothed. And the other, more visible parts of Billy’s bared body were all still there too, even more distracting when there was nothing, or rather no one, present to keep Steve from looking. And now that he had, Steve couldn’t stop looking—at all of him. Even with, or perhaps especially because of, the faded markings, Billy was _perfect_ , his skin so soft and smooth it shined. 

Steve let his fingers skim downward to the ridge of Billy’s jeans, deftly pulling at the buttons until they pulled through the slits. That was another thing Steve had noticed that morning: that Billy’s jeans all buttoned rather than zipped. He had also taken in the distinct lack of underwear. There had been a few pairs (three) folded in among the other clothes within the duffle bag, which wasn’t nearly enough to get him through the week. A quick scan of his memories of Billy from gym class confirmed pretty quickly that Steve had never actually seen Billy wear any. That didn’t explain why he didn’t, but it did explain Billy’s preference for buttons. 

Steve had also seen Billy’s cock that morning from the new bird’s eye angle. But it had been dark, and the adrenaline of the situation pumping through him had been too distracting to fully appreciate the heavy, thick girth of Billy, especially _now_ as the blood steadily rushed in to fill him out. Slowly, Steve let his fingers skim over the length of Billy’s skin until it reached his dick where he repeated the slow crawl of his fingertips down that length too, marveling at the sensation--at once so familiar yet foreign. 

Steve didn’t make a habit of bottoming. He’d had a cock or two in his own body before, sure, because he had been to the summer camps, and sports trainings, and the wilder end of parties, and sex was sex and he technically had all the pieces to make it work. But he never really fully _got_ what the pleasure of being on the receiving end was. It always felt fine enough, but wasn’t anything particularly euphoric. He just preferred topping. Tommy and the guys liked to joke that Steve Harrington was a man consistently led around first and foremost by his dick and where he could stick it. And they weren’t _wrong_. He liked sex and he liked the control and validation he felt that came with it: from being on top. And yet, looking down at Billy now, Steve was surprised to realize that he’d be up for either with Billy. That he was far enough gone on Billy’s body that, if only Billy was willing, Steve would pretty much take whatever Billy was willing to give. 

That being said, Steve noted as he twisted Billy’s body to get a better look at his ass, _not_ utilizing what was possibly Billy’s best feature in a long list of appealing physical traits had to be its own kind of sex crime. Because, _fuck_ , Billy’s ass was a goddamn eighth wonder. Steve took in the curve of it, fat and hard and so fucking round that Steve couldn’t help but grab a fist full of it with his free hand, palming the flesh in a way that made his hips jerk forward as he gasped. The involuntary release of sound from his throat sounded raw and rough, a vulnerable nerve plucked and exposed. It sounded like Billy. Steve worked both of his fists harder in response, palming at Billy’s cock and ass until the noises turned pitched and heady. As his hips rocked between his hands, Steve kept his eyes on Billy’s face in the glass. Watched his pupils dilate and his lips grow slack, even as the muscles tensed tighter against his throat. Steve watched until he knew exactly what Billy looked like when lost to sensations of pleasure; how Billy would look— _did look_ —when Steve touched him. 

The unfiltered expression on Billy’s face made Steve’s knees go weak and his legs began to shake with the adrenaline in a protest against remaining upright. Steve backed up towards the vague direction of the bed as he touched, keeping his eyes on Billy’s reflection until the backs of his calves hit the mattress, letting himself bend and topple onto the bed upon impact. On his back, Billy’s body went loose, limbs falling open, his back embracing its natural arch. Steve immediately sought out his chest, teasing Billy’s body again with the tips of his nails. 

Everywhere he touched was just this side of ticklish, particularly the junction of Billy’s ass and legs, right below where the round curve of it met his upper thighs. Steve danced his fingers over the dip. The sensation swelled up inside him, filling and twitching under the taught muscles of his stomach. Seriously, Billy’s body was _insane_ , and fuck, Steve wanted to do everything to it at once—just sink everything he’s got into it. Steve clutched his fingers tighter, creating deep indentations into the hard curve of his ass: Listened to how raw the gravel of Billy’s voice sounded when he cried out into the empty echo of the house. Steve knew how he would respond to that voice. How he could coax and soothe him down with gentle words only to dip back in harder, make Billy cry out louder, sharper.

Billy’s body shuddered below him, shying and squirming away from the touch. Steve chased it with his fingers, unwilling to let Billy’s body find any relief or reprieve, wanting to know exactly how overstimulation felt for him. It was a different sort of pain, a type of teasing agony that Billy’s body found exquisite. Steve could all too easily imagine what it would be like to do this to Billy when fully intact inside his own body. Steve with his own hands and mouth back, tracing Billy everywhere, holding him down and mouthing at the skin of his thighs until he begged and squirmed. How Steve wouldn’t relent no matter how much Billy might beg because he had learned precisely just how much Billy could take. That he could _make_ him take it until Billy’s sanity shivered and split.

The sensations in him continued to climb, the sensitivity of his skin was incredible, overwhelming. And yet, something was still missing. Something that just wasn’t _enough_. Steve tried to claw his way into the ridges on his torso as he worked his other fist harder over his cock, scratching deep into the muscles of his side to chase the spark of bright pain that Steve’s own body would have craved. Only that wasn’t it. Billy’s body flinched under his fingers, invigorated by the spike of cortisol that shot through him, but in a way that felt more like anxiety and fear than desire. It was a curious sensation, to experience the sharp flinch of pain, but to still have his body try to fortify and take it. To just _submit_ to it—an idea that opened up a whole new avenue of things for Steve to fantasize about at night. That Billy might not ask for pain, but that he could physically take so much of it, had been conditioned to do so, and that he just might push through it to get a rise out of Steve. Or to show Steve just how much he could take, to make Steve _proud_ of him. 

And _yeah_ , Steve knew that was a thought that would keep him up at night. That if he ever got back into his own body, it would sustain some of his more specialized fantasies for months to come. That didn’t help him _now_ though. At the moment, Billy’s body needed _something_ —desperately—and it wasn’t that sweet rush of pain. And yet, it wasn’t something soft either. Because Steve _tried_ that--tried working his hands softly over his skin until Billy’s body strained up below him, once again silently begging for whatever it was it needed. Steve had no choice but to continue to explore. He touched everywhere, stroking and pulling and it was all so fucking _good_ , but it was as if there was some black hole in his core that he couldn’t quite reach into. Taunting him as empty pleasures swirled around the hollow center inside him but still wouldn’t quite fill him up. And that’s what it was: he felt _empty_. But there was no way that Billy Hargrove of all people could like…could he? 

On a whim, Steve pushed Billy’s fingers against his tongue, stomach fluttering as he tracked just how wide Billy’s jaw could open. Suddenly finding that he needed to know if Billy could take even _more_ , he pushed a little further back until the tips hit throat. Billy’s body took the invasion easy, didn’t even _react_ to the pressure. And well, _fuck_. Steve, when in his own body, wasn’t exactly small in the size department. Which had always been something he was honestly a little smug about but at the same time a little self conscious of. Because as hot as it was to watch someone choke on his dick, he also felt a little bad about it sometimes. And even worse, a little frustrated that no one could ever take more than a third of him in. There had been one guy a couple years back that had been able to take most of him. A swimmer two years Steve’s senior who would meet up with Steve behind the gym to blow him after their respective practices. The guy’s mouth had been deep and his breath control even better. It had been amazing—probably the best Steve’s ever had. The tangle of sweat and chlorine by the east wing of the pool all these years later still got Steve hard whenever he passed it. And yet, with the cool easy way Steve stroked at the back of Billy’s throat with his fingers, it was hard not to think about how Billy could possibly take him even better. Not that Billy ever _would_ suck Steve off to the root, but he maybe physically _could_. 

So that was yet another thing now permanently on the list that Steve probably won’t be able to stop thinking about the next time he sees Billy. Which was kind of a problem. After all, what was he supposed to do when this was all over? When they had to go back to class in their right bodies? When Billy would sit there behind him in math with his wide jaw and this elastic throat of his, open and empty. What was Steve supposed to do when Billy smiled at him after this with that wicked grin, spread his lips all wide around his teeth, when all Steve will be able to think about is just how much of his dick could fit between them? When he now knew exactly how Billy’s throat felt when it fluttered. How it felt right and good with Steve’s fingers stuffed down deep and restricting his airway. How the deep, empty ache inside Billy was eased somewhat with his mouth full, but still pulsed and simmered dark and inviting somewhere further south. 

Billy’s throat was warm and wet. Steve gathered what he could from it until he knew his fingers were heated and slick. Billy’s body ached at the base of his spine, tingling below. Steve didn’t even think about it further. It was so implausible for a guy like Billy, but Steve had his suspicions all the same that the empty need might be literal. So he went for it, palming at the swell of Billy’s ass one more time before slipping a finger down into Billy’s body. The result was immediate, nerves searing so sweetly wherever the spit-slick skin of his fingers brushed past as they pushed their way in, and Steve knew that he had been _right_. His suspicions confirmed as the first, followed quickly by the second finger bottomed out to the knuckles and Billy’s body reflexively arched off the bed, the souls of his feet and the back of his skull the only points of contact remaining on the mattress.

“Fuck, Hargrove,” Steve panted, sweating despite the cold; Billy’s body too heated with the rapid flutter of his heartbeat to even register anything external. And Steve was right there with it. He was elated, giddy with the implications. The moment Steve had pushed his way inside, Steve knew it wasn’t the first, or even the second time, Billy had fingered himself open. It felt too right, slid in too easy, like Billy’s body had enough muscle memory built in overtime to know exactly how to relax in all the right places to make itself welcoming and sweet. There was no denying it. Billy liked to be penetrated, stretched, and _filled_.

And yeah, Steve knew on some basic intellectual level that just because Billy liked the sensation of deep anal penetration—and from the ease with which his body relaxed to take in his fingers, had a fair amount of experience with it—it didn’t make him _gay_. It didn’t mean that Billy wanted to get stuffed full with was another man’s cock. And it certainly didn’t mean he wanted to be filled...and rocked into...maybe even _used_ and pleasured until he was boneless and dripping and _wrecked_ by _Steve’s_ cock specifically. But what Steve’s brain knew and what his cock knew—even though he technically didn’t even have either present with him at the moment—didn’t always agree. And as far as Steve’s phantom dick was concerned, the idea that Billy might come his hardest while stretched and achingly full was the most interesting information it had come across in a _long_ time. Fed into the delusion that Billy’s ass was _exactly_ where it needed to be and as soon as possible. 

Steve worked his fingers harder, gaining speed, the thought of what it would be like for *his own* body to be inside of Billy’s for real playing through his mind. Billy could take him, Steve was sure of it. And not just Steve’s size. Billy’s body could handle the way that Steve best loved to fuck: relentlessly fast-paced but long, a drawn out feral kind of precision, and so dirty is was almost _gross_. Billy could definitely take it if he wanted to, because as much as Billy’s skin had reacted to the lightest of touches, shying away from the truer forms of violence, what his ass could take was an entirely different matter. Billy, or at the very least his body, liked it _rough_ : desperately frantic and a little sloppy. Steve could barely keep up with the pace of the craving. The angle wasn't quite right, wasn’t _deep_ enough.

He flipped over, clambered onto his hands and knees on the bed, spine still arched as he brought his hand down and sunk back in, crooking his fingers. Part of Steve wished he had his own hands there. His hands were longer than Billy’s and the length of his own fingers would be _perfect_. But then he would have to give up Billy’s body for his own. And at the moment he wouldn’t trade back for anything, because Billy’s spine was tingling with an allover vibration that felt like a chase towards climax, only strangely decentralized, spread out and reaching outwards everywhere. Like every one of his cells was locked in and ready for the release. 

Steve let Billy’s body guide him, hips undulating over his fingers until he was reaching out with his left hand, gripping tightly into the sheets as he rocked. The central pull of his fingers so sweet that Steve only distantly realized that he had stopped stroking Billy’s cock in tandem in favor of anchoring down and holding on. He didn’t need it. Billy didn’t need it. Billy’s body could _come_ like that—and it _does_ —a frozen moment in which Steve was powerless to do anything but sink his teeth deep into the rumple of the sheet below him as all his cells lit up and burned. It went on _forever_ , or it seemed to. Like something atomic, swallowing in on itself only to reignite. Steve rode it through with a lulled sense of wonder. He’d never had an orgasm like it, not in his own body. Not the kind that expands and fills in all the cracks. One that lasts in simmering fragments and shored waves. 

Steve basked in it afterwards, unwilling to break the moment. To let go of the feeling of what Billy felt like when he _came_. What Billy must usually feel like every time, presumably. And so Steve did what he could to memorize that feeling, to memorize the way Billy’s whole body quivered at the release, so that Steve could recall it later. So that when back in his own skin, he could still think of Billy’s. Use the stored visual of him shaking apart again and again as needed. 

A pleasant calm settled over him as his body came down. He wasn’t tired, per se, unlike with his own orgasms, which tended to hit like lighting strikes, harsh and violent, that usually, inevitably left him exhausted and breathless. In some ways, Billy’s body processed pleasure softer. No less impactful, but more galvanizing. It lingered afterwards beneath his skin in a way that made him feel energized and alive. Steve still didn’t want to move though, too fascinated by the feeling of it and the knowledge set on repeat in his mind, over and over like a profane schoolyard mantra: _Billy likes things in his ass_. Billy can come just from prostate stimulation. And not just as a physical release, but in a way that still felt like an orgasm—something divine. And Steve knew now exactly how to touch and stroke Billy’s body through it to get him there. Steve could make Billy come on just his fingers. And if Steve were to get his body back, he could do it again... and again, until all of Billy’s energy was used up. Steve used to only fantasize about getting Billy to beg him for pleasure. Steve was pretty sure that after this, however, that he was now also going to fantasize about the overstimulation of Billy’s body, of giving Billy pleasure until Billy’s begging him to _stop_. 

The elation of the idea carried Steve through his blissed-out high right up until the crash. There was always a crash. That cruel moment when the liminal zone of post-orgasm endorphins snapped and Steve was always forced to realize that the pleasure he had chased, fleeting yet momentarily so satiating, was fading back into the harsh slap of reality. That usually any moment thereafter, whoever he had been with would get up and leave. Either that or he would. And then Steve would be alone again, like he always was. Before Nancy and after Nancy. And, as it turned out, _during_ Nancy, even though Steve hadn’t known it then. There had been a time, a long while back, that Steve had questioned why it was so easy for everyone to leave him. A time when he had spent too long agonizing over it in his mind until the question had lost all meaning, becoming just a strand of words that seemed familiar. Like he knew the question from somewhere. Had met it once before but had then forgotten until they were just strangers passing in the night. Only to find each other once again in these very moments, during the crash, when the highs turned suddenly low. 

There wasn’t anyone to leave him here. Billy had never been there at all. Steve wasn’t sure which was worse: to have someone like Billy and to lose him, or to play with a boy who wasn’t ever really there in the first place, just sex with dolls and living ghosts. He couldn’t be sure, but the former still seemed like the harder option. Steve wasn’t great with rejection on a good day with the people who didn’t even matter, people he didn’t even really see before he went in for the strike. Watching Billy truly walk away from him wasn’t something Steve thought he could handle. Which was another reason, if not the main one, for why Steve hadn’t ever really tried to make any kind of move. After all, there were moments sometimes, fleeting little expressions or movements from Billy that the deeper recesses of Steve’s mind would perk up at, a quick spark in the air that said Billy might want him too. A meet-up of their eyes for a beat too long until his vision seared, or how close Billy would hedge sometimes just inside his personal space. But then Steve would remember that Billy was straight. That the world was just statistically cruel that way, and that Billy was adamantly a full-fledged member of that statistic. So even if Billy was maybe _curious_ and wanting to experiment, Steve knew he couldn’t do it. Steve could handle Billy kicking his ass if Steve tried a move and Billy freaked out or really wasn’t down for it. He just couldn’t deal with the “no.” Not from something—some _one_ —Steve wanted so badly. And even if Billy said “yes,” he really didn’t want to deal with the “goodbye” that always came after. Once again, not from _Billy_. He needed the fantasy, the strung-along hope that Billy wanted him too, and wanted something _more_. That he didn’t just want sex, but wanted sex with _Steve_ specifically. Which was crazy, sure, but then again, Steve was a teenage boy living in nowhere Indiana who responded to strangers in the hallway at school when they addressed him as “King”. It wasn’t exactly a secret—even from himself—that Steve thrived on delusion. 

However, Steve was also, at this point, pretty good at repression. It was in his blood, inherited and hard-earned through a long line of WASP genetics. The crash came, but it also went, receding into the background to deal with again some other time, which was ideally _never_. Instead, Steve used the tricks he had cultivated over time to distract himself, to recenter and ignore the larger questions that he didn’t have the answers for anyway. The present was always a good place to start, focusing on all the things external to his interior. Like Billy. And his body. He was in Billy’s body. He was in Billy’s body and it was hungry. 

Steve dragged himself reluctantly off the bed to fumble towards the door. The house beyond Billy’s bedroom was quiet and still _cold_. Steve immediately halted at the threshold before rushing over to dig back through the duffle for the sweats he had worn into the kitchen that morning along with the warmest looking henley in the bag, which he followed by a second and then a third shirt until the layers began to hedge tediously on the edge of being cumbersome and awkward. He was warmer though. And that was the most pressing goal of the moment. The second was food, which Steve shuffled off to the kitchen to find. Only he didn’t find any. The dull light of the fridge mocked him as it stood, casting a pale blue chill over the empty shelves save half of an onion and a container of Ranch dressing. The cupboards didn’t fare any better. Just a few bags of variant baking supplies and a box of rice—the later of which was _something_ , but who actually knew how to make rice? 

The soft humm of the fridge was too loud in the room, distracting. It annoyed him in a way, looming there in the kitchen sucking up the electricity for no reason. Not that using up electricity was something Steve had ever cared about before. He left every light in his own house on at all times and then some. It was just the principle of the thing, to need something from an object that Steve had learned to rely on and then to have even the sad hunk of metal disappoint him too. It had, after all, one job. To keep and store food that had always been there whenever Steve had needed it, always filled with leftovers or Tupperware stuffed with lasagnas and casseroles that the housekeeper restocked without fail once a week. But then again, it was only the fridge’s job to store, not to stock itself. That blame fell more to Billy’s family who had apparently left Billy to fend for himself in a freezing house with nothing in the fridge. Great.

Annoyed, Steve settled on gulping down a glass of water before retreating from the kitchen in defeat, stopping off at the bathroom on his way back to Billy’s room to relieve his bladder.  
The bed was wrecked, or at least the sheets were—crumpled and cum stained in a swirl of solitary debauchery. And yeah, Billy probably wouldn’t appreciate Steve leaving his sheets covered with slick and come. It was kind of tempting to leave them for Billy to see anyway. Just to see what Billy would do about it. But then again, it was Steve that had to sleep in the bed tonight. But then again-again, technically, the idea of sleeping in sheets soaked in _Billy_ wasn’t actually entirely unappealing. Steve could be _gross_ like that. 

Ultimately, however, it probably wasn’t the best idea for the bed to be left as it was in all its deviant cum-stained glory for when Billy’s family came home. Luckily, the boxes and their contents lining Billy’s room were still right where they had been that morning, including the spare set of sheets. Steve pulled the clean, worn linen out of the box, set on changing his own sheets for once. It wasn’t something he did all that often, but he knew _how_ , in theory. Steve took another look through the rest of the box as he went. The first aid kit and food rations hidden underneath the fresh set made a lot more sense now. He grabbed one of the power bars and the water, inhaling them both as he tried to fold the corners of the top sheet like Billy had and making a mental note to replenish Billy’s stock for him later.

After the last tuck, Steve tilt back against the wall, eyeing the room. Looking over the made bed, Steve felt pretty accomplished. He had done something domestic—kind of. Only the one small problem of what to do with the old sheets remained. He balled the dirty sheets up and looked around. There was nowhere in the room to hide or stash them. And with the mattress directly on the floor, Billy didn’t even have an underneath the bed. Out of options, Steve pulled on his jacket and shoes and went outside to Billy’s car, popping open the trunk to throw the dirty sheets inside. He’d drop them off at the cleaners tomorrow. 

Steve was just about to close the trunk lid again when he remembered the tape--and his vow to find it. There was a feeling, a tingle or buzz beneath his skin, that always came alive in his veins whenever Steve was faced with the possibility of a hunt. The tape was no exception. There was that quiver of excitement to the atmosphere as he searched the car, picking his way through the Camaro’s curves and crevices like he had Billy’s body. Also just like Billy’s body had been, the car was immaculately cared for: the interior as clean as Billy’s room, the leather of the seats well-oiled and supple despite their wear. Poking around the floorboards and beneath Billy’s seats, his fingers finding the forgotten bits of cigarettes and loose change, felt just as intimate, in a way, as the exploration of his skin had. This was, after all, Billy in mechanical form. An extension of everything he cared about. Even if there wasn’t much physically in it for Steve to find—like the tape. Steve did another thorough pass but there was still no sign of it. Billy had been outside of the car though when Steve left the station, which meant he could have put it in the trunk. The trunk had appeared mostly empty when Steve had tossed the sheets in, but the tape would be thin and small enough to tuck in along the sides. 

Steve got out and opened the lid back up to take a closer look, running his fingers along the rim of the trunk’s base. It felt odd, a little unbalanced. Jonathan had a similar enough car to Billy’s, a 71’ LTD with a deeper storage compartment where he stored the spare tire and his weed, so Steve searched for a similar seam in the floor. Sure enough, the side came loose under his fingers. He pried at the gap until he felt the cushion pop up, revealing the car’s false bottom and the actual trunk bellow.

Steve felt his eyebrows jump, slammed with a sudden alert curiosity at the collection of objects below. “And what do we have here, Hargrove?” Steve asked the quiet street, almost expecting the car to answer since the reveal couldn’t possibly get any stranger: Billy had _books_. 

Steve shuffled through the cache of Billy’s collection, the spines of over-read novels flexed and fragile, well-loved. Some book titles Steve had heard of from school, but had never read himself, books like ‘Wuthering Heights’ and ‘Middlemarch’. Most of them, however, Steve had never even heard of, and were written by names that seemed foreign and fantastic: Gore Vidal, Evelyn Waugh, Camus, Baudelaire, Jean Genet, and all with titles that made no sense (Brideshead Revisited?) or seemed to be about...plants? Steve stroked the spine of “The Flowers of Evil,” nestled right next to another called “Our Lady of the Flowers.” Maybe Billy was secretly into gardening? 

The oddest book of them all, however, was an unmarked leather bound notebook tucked to the side, the cover smudged in charcoal and ink. Steve picked the book up, running his fingers over the smooth glide of the leather and the well-creased spine. It looked like a journal, only Billy didn’t seem like the kind of guy to keep a _diary_. That is, he didn’t seem like the type to keep a diary just like he didn’t seem the type to get off on fingers buried in his ass, so. Steve flipped it open. As unexpected as the thought of a diary had been, what Steve found was even more surprising. It was a _sketch book_ , the pages near filled with drawings—detailed character studies in pencil and charcoal. And they were _good_. Stunning in their detail and the careful effort of the shaded lines from body to body. 

The drawings were beautiful, lovingly crafted. 

And they were all of Steve.

Time froze around him as Steve flipped through the pages, his own face and form staring back at him. There his life was, his daily rituals laid out for him in all their mundane glory in a delicate blend of charcoal. Steve smiling at the tables at lunch; Steve in his Wayfarers with his head tilted back; Steve on the court and Steve in the gym showers. Every opportunity Billy would have to see Steve throughout the day was in there, painstakingly documented and preserved. There were also, however, renderings of Steve in scenarios that Steve _knew_ Billy had never seen him in before. Pictures with his hair tousled and his eyes slack with pleasure. Postures with his skin bare and muscles loose. Each one _just_ this side of suggestive, while maintaining a speck of plausible deniability that they were anything other than an artists hand practicing the various twists and turns of a body’s range of anatomy. There were also, curiously, several pages of what looked to be Steve’s hands in different poses. _Just_ his hands, filling up pages all on their own. Steve’s fingers splayed out over a basketball or clenched into a fist. One even of Steve’s right hand loosely folded with the index finger curling into a beckoning, summoning motion.

Steve took them all in with a mounting sense of curiosity followed quickly by an all-out elation. Because, yeah, this was *interesting*. His heart was beating faster just holding the pages; he could feel it pulse against his throat. Steve wasn’t the smartest guy, but he was smart enough to recognize the bright wash of a green light when it shone his way. Steve had been operating in the red zone with Billy from day one, guided only by the occasional flickers of a cautionary fade to yellow. Nothing with Billy had ever screamed “go.” Not like _this_. Billy was _straight_ and did everything he could to make that abundantly known. And yet, straight boys didn’t generally fill pages and pages of scrap paper with the imaginary lines of other men’s forms for fun. At least not the merely casually curious ones. Steve wasn’t entirely sure of what he was holding, but he was pretty sure that it was the key to a fucking emerald city of “go”. 

Steve tucked the book into the front pocket of Billy’s leather jacket, which was wide enough to fit the depth, but not the length of it, leaving the caramel leather cover still poking out from the top of his pocket like the poorly hidden secret it now was, as he climbed into the car. The clock on the dash read 8:15. There was no knowing exactly when Neil would come back, and Steve was pretty sure that had been on purpose—a calculated move to keep the suspense that much sharper with the threat’s dark, ambiguous angles. Letting Billy wonder every time headlights lit up the street if it was finally his time. 

But Steve wasn’t actually Billy, so the joke was on Neil this time because Billy wasn’t sitting in his bed alone in the dark tonight waiting for his father to come home and do god knows what to him in the name of keeping him subdued. Billy was safe at Steve’s, hopefully eating all the food he wanted and probably fucking with all Steve’s shit. Maybe he had even figured out the pool was heated and had stripped down and gone in, enjoyed Steve’s body in the water. Gotten all warm and cozy and maybe a bit more pliable after... all curled up or maybe even all sprawled out in Steve’s bed. Maybe he was touching himself—Steve’s self— _whatever_ —there too. Thinking about Steve. Calling out his name, again and again until he came…. 

Point being, Neil’s tacits didn’t work on him. They didn’t work on anyone tonight, and there was something oddly satisfying about that even if Neil didn’t actually know it. Then again, maybe he did. He had, after all, kept _pushing_ Billy. Kept looking for something that wasn’t quite there. Maybe the fear and submission he was hoping to see in his eyes and finding it lacking. In which case, good. Let Neil question for once where Billy’s mind was at for a change. So yeah, Neil was maybe coming back home any minute, expecting Billy’s body to be there, but fuck him. Steve was going to finally have a conversation tonight and it wasn’t going to be with Neil fucking Hargrove. Not when this new information was so much more present and important. That while Steve had been so busy trying to _not_ look at Billy, Billy had apparently been looking at him, long and hard enough to recreate the lines of his face from memory later. 

It wasn’t like Steve to miss it when someone wanted him, and it was really unlike Steve to miss the signs from someone he wanted right back. But Billy had so many fortified walls and different faces that it was hard to fully pin down a read. And Steve wasn’t used to doubt and insecurity until Nancy. She had been the first person he had really wanted who didn’t want him back. She had been the first person he ever thought he might actually want, like actually tried to put in the work to pursue and really know rather than to just take whatever was just there and offered. And she didn’t want him. That rejection had really fucked him up, shot his confidence and made him doubt that he might ever have more to offer than his body and his hair. It had confirmed what Steve had always known: fucking was fine, but wanting anything more was dangerous. 

But wasn’t that the crux of it? Steve _liked_ danger, always had. And he _missed_ it. Ached for it whenever Billy was near. Maybe not the life-threatening, consume you with one swallow of extra-terrestrial teeth kind of danger, but the other kind. The kind that came wrapped in leather and exhaled smoke like a promise. 

Maybe Steve had been dense to the signs, or maybe Billy had been too good at hiding them. It didn’t matter. The sketches didn’t _prove_ that Steve’s feelings for the other boy were requited, but Billy taking the time to sketch out a series of Steve’s faces tossed back on the brink of orgasm (and, as far as Steve could assess, doing a pretty accurate job of it, like Billy had really thought all the possibilities through) did make for a pretty strong case. Steve backed the Camaro out of the drive, a low hum on his lips and drumming out the beat of the engine with his fingers on the wheel. Suddenly Billy was looking a lot more obtainable. And if there was one thing Steve was good at, it was attaining obtainable things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun trivia: Both of the filming locations for the Hargrove and the Harrington residences in the actual show are homes located in Georgia. The actual Hargrove house has undergone some expansions since the 80s, which officially doubled its current square footage (now listed at 1,400 sq ft) , but without the later basement edition looks to be an approx. 800-ish square feet on the main level (which I believe is all that would have been there in 84’). The home used for the Harrington house in comparison is 3,174 sq ft (and actually really does have 5 bathrooms!). 
> 
> For those of you outside of the US and interested in such things, the single level ranch style house was super common in the Midwest (and still is), as the bigger suburban subdivisions didn’t really start cropping up in Middle America until the late 80s/early 90s. As such, Billy’s house is a bit closer to standard for 80s "working class" America, while Steve’s house, being what it is in the middle of a small town in Indiana in 1983, is legit a pretty insane rich boy mansion, regionally speaking. (It was also built circa 1976, so it would have been much newer as well). But yes, the difference between the size of their houses turns out to be just a super fun kind of size kink I personally wasn't aware that I had until crunching the numbers...but maybe that's just me. (Please feel VERY free to comment on whether or not I'm alone in that... I might be :p)


	6. En-Garde, Pret, Allez

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Did you touch it?” Steve asked him, teasing and curious. “You were all alone in this big empty house. All alone with that body of mine that you claim to like so much.” Steve reached forward to pluck the remains of the dying cigarette from Billy’s fingers before he settled back against the door. He could feel the old tendrils of the former King swirl and settle into his bones. A resurgence of confidence and candor as he let the muscles of his shoulders fall loose and his head tilt, eyes hungry, curious. “So what did you do to it, huh, Billy? What did you do to _me_?”

The house was dark when Steve pulled up into the drive. Darker than Steve had seen it in a while, camouflaged and sinking back into the trees. Apparently Billy hadn’t felt compelled to leave every light in the house on like Steve did. But then again, why would he. Billy didn’t know about the woods and all the reasons why one wouldn’t want to let the house get swallowed by the tree line. 

But for once, the darkness barely bothered him. His entire body hummed with the possibility of confronting Billy about the book. He hadn’t felt like this —that buzz of anticipation of a score— in far too long. Thirty-seven full whole days of celibacy: a whole month since Nancy had broken it off with him and a full week on top of that before she had managed to work up the nerve to do it. Steve hadn’t experienced that kind of sexual drought since, well, _ever_. Even the bought of Mono that he had either picked up from Debbie Winters or Troy Kincaide back in freshman year had only taken him out of the game for twenty-three. The lack of a fix had bothered him less than he would have thought —at first. The sting of Nancy’s rejection had dampened the urge, spreading like ice water through his veins until his heart beat slow and cold. But Billy was _hot_ , and had been thawing Steve down for _weeks_. The sketch book was the last straw. It made Steve’s entire body itch with anticipation, or Billy’s body, whoever; it didn’t matter anyway because Steve was pretty sure the thrill behind it was all his own. It felt just like he knew, from before, that familiar elation. The tingle of skin about to touch skin, when Steve got someone in his crosshairs and pressed them smooth and easy down onto the backseat of the Beemer or up against the locker room walls. How it felt right before Steve’s fingers skimmed and paved the way up a girl’s skirt or toyed and pulled at the zipper of another boy’s jeans. The confidence that came with knowing no one would ever reject or deny their _king_. And _Billy_ , well, Steve had planned his play: simple and just the slightest bit teasingly indirect like he always used to be. He’d start with showing Billy how he’d found “the evidence”— all the intricate drawings of Steve’s pieces—and then offer him the “Harrington Smile” that people always found so charmingly sweet, because Hawkins, Indiana was a homegrown enough town to think it didn’t have any natural predators. Steve would assure Billy that Steve would get his body back and once he did he’d let Billy study all the pieces of that body up close, let him have them _all_ over and in him just like Steve knew Billy wanted it. 

He had thought about it the whole drive over. Billy _wanted_ him. Steve was ninety-nine percent sure of it. Guys didn’t draw detailed pictures of other boys showering like the act itself was some sort of divine ecclesiastical experience without wanting to fuck them, right? Sure, Billy could just be really into art, but then surely he would have varied up his subject matter a little. At the very least, the fact that Steve seemed to be his veritable muse or whatever had to mean that finally making a move was at least worth a shot. There had been a time, not too long ago, that Steve wouldn’t have even questioned it, would never have waited it out for the universe to finally offer him some deus ex machina of confirmation. The old Steve would have just felt that spark of initial pull and pushed Billy up against the tile walls of the showers months ago, self-assured that Billy’s body would bend to him and melt under the water. Steve was confident, a _king_. It was time to remember that.

Steve knocked on the door, the spare key inconveniently forgotten in one of the kitchen drawers _inside_ the house. Billy took his sweet-ass time coming to the door. Steve didn’t know why. Maybe he wasn’t even there. Who knew what Billy did with his nights. But the Beemer was still in the driveway, so he couldn’t have gone far. Billy didn’t strike Steve as the kind of guy to go for long contemplative walks in the forest, so Steve hadn’t thought to mention that Billy shouldn’t. But then again, Billy hadn’t struck Steve as the kind of guy to keep his room immaculately clean and confined to well-ordered boxes, to use military angles on his sheets, or to call his father “sir.” And he definitely hadn’t struck Steve as the kind of guy to keep a box of charcoal and Conte pencils in his car in order to diligently sketch out the lines of Steve’s thighs to paper with a longing hand. So Steve didn’t really know Billy. He could be anywhere. He should have warned him--told him something about the woods. Kept him _safe_. 

The static noise of panic that began to edge around his vision hyper-focused in on the window above the door as he squinted into the dark of the upstairs hallway, willing Billy to magically appear there as Steve knocked again on the door. “Come on, come _on_ ,” Steve muttered into the still night. Surely Billy wouldn’t have gone out into the woods on such a cold night? Because it was cold, the temperature slouching its way towards a deep overnight freeze. And Billy definitely didn’t know how to dress to go outside in it. Billy’s leather jacket did nothing to keep it out. And despite overhearing Billy shrug it off to girls outside the school when they fussed over him about how cold he must be-- the way he’d smile sharp and seductive and tell them “Nah, baby, I run _hot_ ”--Billy’s body did feel the cold. He trembled and shuddered in it like everyone else. Steve knew that now. He could _feel_ it. He was freezing and Billy needed to answer the door because Billy’s body was cold, so Steve was cold. And Billy might be out wandering around in Steve’s body in the cold and It liked the cold. And there was no way in hell that Steve could even begin to handle watching his body possessed and led around by _both_ Billy Hargrove _and_ a god damn evil alien entity. He didn’t have many hard limits, but that was at the very top of the MOHs scale. 

Feeling a little frantic, Steve pounded on his own front door with growing force until the hallway light flipped on. The glow of it did something to Steve, filled him with relief as much as it sparked a flare of anger at Billy for making him worry. Steve watched his body pad down the hall, taking the stairs with a slow movement to the muscles like Billy had just woken up. Had he been sleeping? At 8:30? The thought was so weird that it filled Steve with a sudden resurgent desire to tease Billy--to push at him. He relaxed Billy’s body, leaning it up against the door frame to do just that as Billy unlocked the door and swung it open. He blinked at Steve from behind the door, sluggish with sleep and obviously confused by his presence. 

“Harrington?”

Steve had seen himself looking like he just woke up before, certainly. But once again, it was different when Billy blinked his eyes once more before rubbing them with his knuckles, his other arm flexing up into the air to stretch. They were all movements just slightly different than Steve had ever made before, an idea confirmed when the joints somewhere in his spine cracked and popped in protest. Steve crossed his arms across his chest as he watched, tilting his head further against the door to look up at Billy from the stoop. “Nope, it’s me. The ghost of your Christmas future.”

Billy mimicked the tilt of his head, squinting at Steve, working him out. Or trying to. “It’s not Christmas.”

Steve grinned. “Then I’m just a manifestation of your conscience.”

Billy offered the slip of a smile back, lips twitching while the rest of him held still. “Yeah? Ask anyone; I don’t have one.” 

Steve flashed his teeth, unfazed, but still needing to squint a slight bit under the glare of the porch lamp. He wished he had a pair of his sunglasses. Even at night, at least when inside his own body, he was always carrying. “Time traveling clone sent back from the future to warn you about the impending robotic uprising.”

Billy rewarded Steve’s teasing tone with a shoulder shrug, a slightly more relaxed release of the muscle. “I would never care enough about the world domination agendas of mechanical despots to come back and warn anyone.” 

Steve sighed, overly dramatic with a forced disappointment as he tilted his body further into the door, hand creeping lazily up the frame to support the weight of the pose until it was practically a sprawl. “OK, I guess I’m Steve then.”

Billy stepped back to let him in the house. Steve had forgotten that he was cold. Especially with Billy looking at him like he was: wary, and, if Steve really looked, a slight shimmer of what might be hope, or at the very least anticipation. The silence stretched for a moment between them and Steve let it build, enjoying the idea of catching Billy off guard. As Steve had hoped, Billy broke first. “What are you doing here?” Billy finally asked. 

Steve let his eyes roam over Billy, taking in his own body under Billy’s care, dressed in Steve’s favorite combination of soft cottons: his track sweats and his old Michigan pullover. His hair was still a little wet. He had _showered_. Steve felt a flutter of something stir as he advanced, just a little closer. “What were *you* doing here? Were you _sleeping_? It’s not even nine.” 

Billy’s mouth flopped open, not prepared to respond to an actual question. “Your house is boring,” he settled on finally. 

Steve shrugged like he didn’t quite believe him. “Sure.”

“I’m doing you a favor,” Billy backpedaled. “You need all the beauty sleep you can get.”

That was a good enough lead in for Steve. He let his eyebrow lift, grin spreading wide. “Aw, you don’t mean that. You already think I’m pretty,” he drawled, pulling the sketchbook out of his pocket as he did so to give it a little waive in the air between them. 

Billy’s eyes went wide when he saw it, face drained suddenly pale and stammering, “I can explain.”

“Oh can you,” Steve deadpanned. There he was again, _pushing_. Steve could end it all now, but it was just too great: that desire to push, to watch Billy flounder and struggle.  
But instead of pushing back like Steve had expected, Billy faltered for a moment before relinquishing a soft and defeated, “no.” 

“You want me?” Steve pressed again, because there was no way he was letting it come to rest there. 

But Billy didn’t say anything else. He turned from Steve instead, fingers digging into the custom crown molding in Steve’s foyer as he curled in towards the wall. 

Billy was _panicking_ , Steve could see it. The light was reflecting off the irises of his face again like they had with Dustin that afternoon. But Billy wasn’t doing it on purpose this time, and making Billy _cry_ was not exactly what Steve had come over here to do. 

Steve rushed to correct it, putting the leather book down on the entryway table and holding up his hands in what he hoped was a placating motion of surrender. “Hey, I’m sorry. It’s okay.”

But Billy wasn’t listening and Steve knew why. He recognized the symptoms of an attack, especially while watching *his own* body go through them. Steve watched his body slide down the wall as Billy began to shake. Watching his body go down was too surreal; knowing he was watching _Billy_ go down was even stranger. Steve had definitely miscalculated his advancement strategy somewhere. So much for best laid plans. 

Steve crept cautiously over to where Billy sat curled up into himself against the wall. Lifting a hand to rest it on the slope of Billy’s neck was a sudden, sick rush of Deja Vu. They had been there before, under the cover of those trees. But that had been dark, and Steve had been the one inside his body and panicking then, so this inverted perspective was foreign and uncanny. 

Billy was still a mess, his face drained white and body shaking with heaving, catching breaths, but he did take the whole thing better than Steve had. There were no proclamations of his impending doom, no struggle at all to really fight it. Like Billy was well-practiced in riding it out. There was still an element of control present in the tight clench of his jaw, focusing on breathing while he waited for the neurochemical storm to pass. 

_‘I have them too,_ ’ Billy had told him, and _‘That’s panic attack 101, Harrington,’_ and yeah, Steve now had proof that Billy did indeed know all about them. That was all well and good, but still, knowing _why_ something was happening didn’t always make it any easier, not completely. So Steve bent down to him anyway, rubbing a hand up and down his spine and across his shoulders, inhaling deeply next to his ear until Billy came closer to matching it. 

Billy didn’t acknowledge Steve’s presence, but he also didn’t pull away. Also unlike Steve, who had screamed and clawed at the dirt when the misplaced adrenaline hit, other than the rocking movement of his lungs trying to let in air, Billy remained impressively still and impressively quiet. Resolved to panic in a stoic kind of silence. And Steve couldn’t help but revisit once again the echo of Billy in the parking lot that morning, Steve’s first real glimpse at Billy’s softer underbelly. The reluctance and hesitancy in Billy’s voice while trying to explain his life in his house with half-formed allusions, so Steve would be better fortified to not _‘show any signs of weakness’_ that his father wouldn’t like or wouldn’t respond too kindly to. Because both of them had built their walls for very real reasons. _‘Don’t make any noise when…’,_ Billy had insisted. Jesus. 

Steve’s diagnosis of ‘post-traumatic stress’ had come six months ago, his attacks seven months before that. He still wasn’t used to them, not even close. Steve had to wonder just how much practice Billy had--how long he has known what to do when your body just betrayed you once it's had enough and then some. Steve never thought he would have been able to before today, but he could picture it all too clearly now: what Billy would look like as a child in a room with a worn-out mattress and no heat trying to keep quiet and breath. 

Steve sat and breathed with him as Billy came down. Billy stayed silent even then too, but Steve knew Billy was back with him when Billy shifted under his palm, uncurling his spine to lean back against the wall. His face was pale and wet and Steve waited as Billy wiped the sleeve of Steve’s old Michigan sweatshirt against the base of his nose with a wet sniff, and, yeah, that was kind of gross, but also kind of Billy. 

“So… that didn’t go quite the way I planned it,” Steve said, a little deadpan because Billy wasn’t the only one who used sarcasm to mitigate a minefield of a situation. But he forced his voice to go softer after. He was a little out of practice with vocalizing _compassion_ , but he tried it anyway. “I guess I accidentally found another one of your ‘demons,’ huh?” Billy didn’t exactly look at him, or even really answer the question, but he didn’t deny it either, and that was answer enough. So Steve kept trying. “I take it no one knows. You know, that you’re…. You are, aren’t you?”

It wasn’t the most articulate question, and for a moment, Steve wasn’t sure Billy was even going to respond to that one either. Billy kept his eyes fixed on the foyer floor tile, some Persian granite import his mother had hired contractors to bring in to replace the old Italian quartz stone the previous fall. She still hadn’t been home to see it. Billy scraped at the grout holding the polished material together, unable to shake it loose with just his fingers. Steve watched him as Billy tapped the hard stone a few times, drilling it nervously against the tips of his nails before he finally took in a long breath and nodded.

The movement seemed to jerk him out of his absent state, anchored him back in the moment, and he looked at Steve, eyes flickering quickly over his face. “Fuck. I’m sorry, ok? Please don’t tell anyone,” Billy said, a short pitch away from begging. And Steve didn’t even know how to respond to that. Steve didn’t really cry a lot. It just wasn’t something his body usually did. It was weird to see himself like that, eyelashes thick and wet, but the sound of his throat wetter. 

Billy continued to speak when Steve didn’t, likely taking Steve’s distracted silence as something more hostile if the increased frantic tinge to his voice was any indication. “If people find out--if _Neil_ finds out, he’ll kill me. Hell, he might even come after _you_. I’ll destroy the sketches, I promise. I didn’t mean to…I’m sorry. It was a stupid thing to do--To put you at risk like that too when you’re not even a fa-When you’re not even _like me._ ”

Ok, this was _really_ not how Steve had seen things going. 

“Billy,” Steve wasn’t sure he’d ever said Billy’s name like that before, not vocatively, out loud in front of him. The syllables sounded foreign on his tongue, but right, felt somehow intimate and familiar. 

Billy snapped his head up, surprised and wary. 

So Steve repeated it, “Billy, it’s OK.”

But Billy looked far from OK, and Steve suddenly had the overwhelming urge to prove it to him. To offer some sort of _comfort,_ which was just as foreign as a concept for Steve as it pry was for Billy. But he went for it anyway the only way he knew how. Steve kept his eyes on Billy’s as he leaned forward slowly, wanting to give Billy the full sweep of time to process what was happening and to pull away if he wanted to. It was bizarre, and not how Steve had ever pictured this happening. Steve had always assumed, somewhere deep down, that one way or another, despite his brain telling him everyday that it wasn’t ever going to happen, that one day his mouth would touch Billy’s. Steve had simply been too close to it too many times for it not to be inevitable. But he had always assumed that first true point of contact would be as violent as everything else, something driven by that fire. He definitely had never thought that he’d be the one leading Billy’s mouth--physically driving his body-- towards his own familiar form. And he’d never thought he had so fully mis-identified the driving element. How the full violent and wicked force of flame had been replaced by something slow, careful and considered. Kissing past himself to get to Billy was like tilting towards a reflection in the water, a vague simulacrum of his face but distorted and foreign by the ripples and angles. 

And yet, Billy didn’t kiss like Steve would, and he tasted like smoke and cinnamon, like Billy. Their lips met softly, Billy’s hesitant, but Steve’s sure, and slowly Billy thawed around him, letting his body bend forward into Steve’s. The movement was so careful and considered, and Steve let it stay that way, lips and tongue skimming the surface of Billy’s at first before sinking in. To his relief, Billy matched him, opening his jaw wider under his to let Steve in, taking the deepening search of Steve’s tongue against his own with a breathy heady little moan that Steve had never himself made before. Billy shifted slightly, pushing forward to let Steve press in deeper and Steve pushed back, letting the growing sturdiness of Billy’s body absorb his own. Billy’s hands came up to curl over his arms, keeping Steve there as he pulled back to breathe in. Steve mimicked the depth of Billy’s inhale, feeling the wet slick on his cheek where he had rubbed against Billy’s tears, transferred and smeared into his skin. 

They continued to breathe into the sliver of space between them, sharing air. Billy tense and poised to run even as his hands held Steve in place from trying to do the same. Not that Steve had any intention of running. But he supposed Billy didn’t know that. Not yet. “You…?” Billy started, looking both wary and hesitant but also just the slightest bit hopeful. 

“Yeah,” Steve affirmed, already knowing the question, or at least the gist of it. He pushed one of the straight dark strands of hair that had fallen over Billy’s face out of his eyes for him. “Me too.” Billy continued to stare at him, working out something in the recesses of his mind too far out of Steve’s reach. “So,” Steve continued, “I take it no one knows?”

Billy shook his head, admitting with a soft and rumbled, “No,” the sound of it a bit too detached and graveled for Steve’s throat, a damp fire. 

Steve angled back enough to take in his face, a thought striking him suddenly that he needed to know the answer to. “ _You_ knew though, right? Or am I the first guy…”. Steve really needed to work on finishing his sentences. But he’d never had this conversation before either. He didn’t quite know all the words. Steve had never really needed to think about where he liked to stick his dick and what that meant. He just followed the electricity and let the willing in. His reputation was fortified by his money and his father’s name. His house keepers had never cared who had been in his bed when they came once a week to clean the sheets, and his parents didn’t even remember his birthday or what year of school he was in. He was pretty sure his mother could walk in on him deep-throating the soccer captain and she would just ask him if he knew where Marina had put the dry cleaning four months ago and, “For heaven’s sake, had he drank _all_ the cognac?” In fact, Steve *knew* she would, actually, because that had _happened_ , April of 1980, freshman year. 

Billy shot him a withering look, “No, Harrington. You’re hot and maybe even kind of _special_ or whatever, but you’re not _that_ special. You didn’t ‘turn’ me gay.”

Steve’s lips twitched at the exasperated tone in Billy’s voice. At the very least the Billy he knew was coming back to him. “I think you could at least _try_ calling me ‘Steve’ at this point, and that’s not exactly what I meant.”

Billy rolled his eyes. “I know what you meant.”

Steve just shrugged and waited for him to continue. 

“There have been others. Back in California, not here. Well, one or two here, technically a few towns over. There’s a bar. I go there sometimes, when I can,” Billy sighed, letting his body fall back again to thump against the wall as he glanced up towards the tall ceiling, suddenly fascinated by the lit glass of the chandelier. 

“Since I was nine. I’ve known since I was nine,” he added.

Steve nodded, relieved that whatever Billy was freaking out about, it wasn’t Billy’s attraction to him. Not really. “Ok, so you knew.” He broached the next question carefully, trying to figure it out--to figure _Billy_ out. “Your father though…. You really think your father doesn’t know?”

At the mention of his father, Billy went white again, a flash of fear in his eyes, and yeah, Steve realized, that had landed too well. But Billy surprised him again as he also shook his head, relenting, “No, I know he does. He has to. But he doesn’t _want_ to know. So he only remembers when it's convenient.” He thumped the back of his head against the wall again, eyes clenching closed as he ran his fingers through his hair. “Fuck, I need a cigarette.”

Steve didn’t even bother telling Billy he couldn’t smoke in the house. He did it enough himself and it wasn’t like his parents could say anything about it. Steve reached up behind him, snatching the pack off the entry table and handing it over. Billy shook one out, fingers still twitching with the aftershocks of adrenaline as he tried and failed a few times to light it. Steve bent forward, his hand folding over Billy’s as he took the smoke and the lighter back, lighting it for him with a quick flick of his fingers over the catch. And since it was already in his hand, Steve took a drag first, letting the smoke curl out from his lips in a measured exhale as he passed the stick back to Billy. They sat that way for a long moment, passing and accepting the cigarette between them, turning the air and atmosphere around them into a new kind of grey. 

Not for the first time that day, Steve kept marveling at how different Billy seemed without all his walls. Billy’s body had always been his first line of defense and Billy had quickly learned an impressive amount of adapted fortification from inside Steve’s skin, but it was also obvious that Billy still didn’t yet know how to fully use Steve’s body as a weapon like he did with his own. And without that, Billy appeared a little more lost that usual, vulnerable, and weaker at the seams. 

Steve had always had a talent for finding the weak spots. He could stand inside a sea of people and point out each one’s insecurities. Once upon a time, Steve had used that skill for only two outcomes: to get laid or to poke at someone’s soft spots until they cracked. It was harder to channel his ability into something better. To help him help others or even just talk to them. But it was something he had been trying to be better at lately. Sometimes the weakest spots where the ones built up most, packed with facades and compensations. Other times the weakest patches were those that weren’t there at all. Just blank, empty spaces that others tended to gloss right over. After only a day of observing Billy, Steve was already pretty sure Billy had both. Steve had already met the cause of one side of that equation. “So, your mom...,” Steve tried, feeling awkward and out of his depth the moment the words left his lips. “Is she…,” Steve let the words hang in the atmosphere. So much for getting better. 

Billy picked it up though, the slow vowels in his speech making it clear that he was too tired to fight. “Dead? No, she’s alive. She’s still in California. Lives out there with her ‘lover’ Linda.”

Steve didn’t know if he was more surprised by Billy’s answer or that he had given it so freely. “Wait, seriously?” 

“Yep.”

Steve didn’t know what to make of that. He had just assumed that Billy’s mother must be dead if she wasn’t here with him, or rather, if he wasn’t with her. “So why didn’t you stay with her?”

Billy’s voice, when he spoke, was oddly detached. Like he was telling someone else’s story, reciting facts from an archived history. “No way Neil was letting me stay with a couple of ‘dykes,’ ya know? And it’s not like I have a choice. Legally I belong to Neil.”

Steve cringed. It was an odd turn of phrase, for Billy to reduce himself so casually to just an object, a thing that Neil Hargrove could _own_. “That’s kind of a fucked up way of putting it.”

Billy shrugged off Steve’s tone with an indifferent hum. “Tell me about it. Direct quote from the paperwork though. So there it is.” Steve watched Billy blow the next stream of smoke towards the floor; noting how he flexed his feet as the smoke slithered past his skin, curling his toes around the dip in the tile. Billy’s feet were bare, which shouldn’t have been as weird as it was. He seemed like that kind of guy after all: bare chest, bare feet, lips wicked and wild around the butt of a cigarette, but since Billy’s current feet were usually otherwise Steve’s, the sight of them were strange. Steve had always been more of a socks-in-the-house kind of guy. His mother’s tastes trended toward the modern: beautiful and austere, and most of the house’s foundations were just too cold to walk around in without some kind of protection. But Steve used to walk around in his house barefoot too, sometimes in the summers. Now he always wore socks, all the time, and not just socks; the last year he had been sleeping in his shoes. Just like Nancy, and Jonathan, and Will. It was a force of habit at this point. None of them could afford the vulnerability of bare soles; you just never know when you’ll need to run. That seemed like something Billy would know too. And yet here he was, barefoot in winter. Maybe Billy just didn’t have anywhere to run _to_. 

“You still talk to her?” Steve asked, because the idea of Billy’s mom just existing somewhere miles away in California was kinda weird, which was ironic, given Steve’s own circumstances. It’s not like he saw his mother much either. But then again, Steve’s monsters weren’t ones he had to live with. Not the physical ones at least. And his own mother hadn’t knowingly abandoned him to fight alone. 

The cultivated detachment in his voice, when he spoke, told Steve that whatever had happened to make Billy’s mother leave hadn’t happened recently. Those kind of inflections took years to build and master. Billy had been alone a long time. “Nah,” Billy shrugged in that tone that told the world he didn’t care. “I tried looking her up once, right before we came here. Turns out, I don’t even know where she is now. Probably changed her name again. She did that a few times over the years, whenever Neil found her. Things weren’t so great back then--pretty bad actually. She doesn’t want anything to do with him and that includes me.”

The honesty in that was unexpected. Steve was pretty sure it was possibly the most information Billy had ever personally offered about himself in one sentence. He was also pretty sure that was likely more of a side effect of the anxiety attack than anything else. The attacks would do that to Steve too, leave him too exhausted and raw to keep all his walls in place. Billy would likely care again later that he had let himself speak so freely. But he was speaking now and Steve wanted to extract all the information about him that he could while he could. Because Steve didn’t know Billy, not really; but he wanted to. So Steve pressed: “Things were ‘bad’ and she just left you there with him?”

Billy shifted, uncurling and then re-curling back in on himself as he reached for another cigarette. “She didn’t want me anyway. I was a weird kid. Too _sensitive_. I guess I cried a lot--just until I learned to take a hit, or whatever,” he threw in as defense like *that* was the issue here. “It used to give her migraines. I can remember her staying in bed for days in the dark. Even before she left, she wasn’t really _there_. And then half the time I would, I don’t know, just kind of not be there either. I mean, my body would be there, and I’d kind of be there too, but a lot of the time it was like I was looking down from above it. Not like this,” Billy motioned between them to indicate their current predicament, “just—detached. Who’d want a kid like that? Neil sure as fuck didn’t. But he got me. I was only six or so when she left. I remember her, but I don’t really remember her, you know? But that’s just the way it is. There’s no reason for me or her to look back. Besides, she probably assumes I turned out just like him.” Billy shrugged on his next exhale, tilting his head back up towards the light fixtures before admitting more softly, “Hell, maybe I did.” 

“You didn’t,” Steve cut in with an air of conviction, because he may not know Billy, but he did know _that_. 

As if Billy could hear his thoughts, he cut back in himself, “You don’t know that. You don’t know _me_ , Harrington. Not really.” 

Steve reached over to pull the cigarette from Billy’s fingers, letting his hand rest there longer than he needed to, smoothing his thumb over the palm below it. It made Billy bring his gaze back down to look at him, eyes fixing on the place that their hands had joined. “I know that I’d like to,” Steve admitted to him earnestly. “And that’s way more than I can say about your father.” 

When Billy didn’t move to say anything to that, Steve continued. “Besides, I do know _some_ —enough to know you’re not him. You can be an asshole, yeah. But not like he is. Trust me; I know guys like him,” Steve confessed, because in a way he _was_ a guy like him, or had been, not so long ago. The kind that liked to push and control and dominate all the people around himself without consequence or care. Even if Steve’s own tactics in doing so favored the verbal over his fists, Steve still knew how to cut a man down. Knew what it was like to _enjoy_ it. “He’s in complete control of what he does. It’s _fun_ for him. I’ve been you for only a day and I can already tell it’s not fun for you. It’s a defense, right? All the shit you do. It’s _survival_. It may have taken me until today to get it, but I finally do. You make this grand show out of being defensive, make it look like you’re in control. But your father, he really is. The way he plays, bides his time and fucks with people--with _you_. He’s all offense.” 

Steve cringed internally at his own words, words that all seemed too fancy to be his own, like he was channeling all the ghosts of his therapists-passed. Only as far as Steve knew, none of them were dead, so it must be him, regurgitating insight from some deeper more clinical part of his mind. Steve also knew, regardless, that he was right. Billy was a defense player, through and through, had never in his life thrown the first punch that Steve had seen. Had even always waited for Steve to hit him first. And Neil, Neil was pure offensive aggression. And that wasn’t even the worst of it. That worst part Steve vocalizes, needing to make sure that Billy knew, “He’s an offensive player,” Steve reiterated. “He’s dangerous and he’s _winning_.”

Billy pulled his hand back, recoiling as he shook his head with a scowl. “I do OK.” 

Steve shot him a look and the downward defensive twist to Billy’s mouth deepened. “Seriously, Harrington. It’s fine.”  
Steve sighed. Billy’s defenses were creeping back in around them; Steve could feel his time to verbalize without Billy fleeing or fighting counting down. “It’s not though. Nothing about this is _fine_. It’s a dangerous game, Billy. I’ve been there myself. Not like this, but I’ve fought some monsters and trust me, you’re losing.” When it seemed Billy wasn’t going to offer a response to that, Steve kept going, always needing to fill the silence. “You ever think about getting out?”

That finally pulled in Billy’s full attention. Billy turned his head toward Steve with a withering, incredulous look. “Have I ever thought about leaving that assholes house? Just getting up and walking away into the rosey sunset where he can’t find or touch me? To be someplace that’s mine, where I don’t have to listen every moment for movement in the hall; where I don’t have to check off every list in my mind to make sure every possible thing to _maybe_ make that asshole happy has been done; a place where I can make any decisions, any at all, that feel like mine? Gee, Harrington. It’s never crossed my mind.”

Steve offered him the smoke back silently but Billy grabbed at the pack instead, shaking another cigarette loose and lighting it up to give his hands something to do, obviously trying to channel the rising tone of frustration in his voice and failing.

“But really, how do you propose I do that, huh?” Billy grit out. “Think about it. I’m _sixteen_. I don’t have any money. Neil keeps me too busy with “family” shit to get the kind of job that offers any kind of sustainable income. I don’t have grounds for emancipation, so until I turn eighteen, I can’t even get a job unless he signs off on it. And even if I could find someone who would look the other way on that, I have no idea where he keeps my birth certificate or my social security card. I have no documents, and if I leave now, I wouldn’t even have a high school degree. What do you propose I do without any of that? So yeah, I’ve _thought_ about it. I think about it _all the time_. Sometimes it feels like it’s all I ever think about. And sure, leaving is easy, but it’s what comes after that’s hard. What do you think guys like me who run away somewhere do when they get there? That’s just how shit is outside the walls of this mansion of yours, princess. It’s either kissing Neil’s ass for two more years or letting strangers fuck mine. I did the math once. Life expectancy works out a little bit higher in my favor with Neil than on the streets, so here we are.”

Before Steve even gets a chance to say anything to that, Billy kept going, like now that he’d finally opened his mouth about his situation, he couldn’t stop, his tone creeping closer to manic with each new word. “Besides I’d be literally on the run. If anyone finds me—maybe some concerned citizen calls the cops, or an officer sees some kid loitering on a corner—they’ll just haul me right back here....I ran away once. When I was thirteen. Made it as far as Bakersfield before county caught me hitching and dragged my ass back to him. Believe me. There were no winners in that situation. Not a particular life event I’m looking to repeat any time soon,” Billy concluded, breath coming a bit more rapid and hard than when he’d started.

Steve didn’t say anything to Billy’s rushed confession; he couldn’t, because he honestly _hadn’t_ really considered that, any of it. And then another part of Billy’s tirade sunk in.

“Wait, you’re _sixteen_?”

Billy blinked back at him, like he didn’t even understand the question. “Uh, yeah.”

“How are you a senior?”

“I’m not.”

“But you’re in my math class,” Steve pressed. 

“Because you suck at math,” Billy grumbled, deflecting. 

“And my English class.”

“Yeah, you’re not so great at that either,” Billy angrily exhaled another round of smoke but then paused. Steve watched, sort of fascinated, as Billy closed his eyes and breathed a few times without the cigarette, deep and shuddering in his chest with his eyes pressed closed before he seemed to recenter. “Sorry,” Billy offered after. “I didn’t mean that. It’s just-I was just in some advanced classes back West. It’s whatever. Look, I’ll be seventeen in a couple months. You’re seventeen. So stop looking at me like--.”

“I’m eighteen actually,” Steve interrupted. 

Billy looked up at him in surprise, “Shit, seriously? When did that happen?” 

“Two weeks ago.” 

“What? How was this not a bigger deal? Your high court didn’t throw you some kind of grandiose ‘coming of age’ kegger?”  
Steve shrugged. “I didn’t really feel like celebrating. Can’t say I'm really looking all that forward to the responsibilities of ‘adulthood’. The Harrington name comes with certain ‘expectations’.”

Billy snorted, some of his anger seeping back out of him as quickly as it came now that the primary focus of the conversation was no longer on him. “What, like marry some pretty little bird and start collecting your own china patterns?” He asked, the words teasing but the tone serious. “You know this place has like an obscene amount of dishware right?”

Steve rolled his eyes as he bumped his shoulder into Billy’s. “Something like that, for a start. But it’s more than that.”

Billy looked at him expectantly. He had given Steve more answers than usual himself and it was only fair to offer something in return. Only it wasn’t that easy to explain. “Ok, well, my grandfather or his father or something owned a lot of this land before the town was built. He like bought it up after one of the world wars to farm it or something. But then the government came in and wanted to buy a bunch of it from him. But my grandfather wouldn’t sell. I think now the government like rents it from us or something.” Steve gestured out the window towards the vague direction of the trees. “Right up to the property line is all leased out to the DOE. My dad divided the rest of the land up further to get into the commercial real estate market. He like, _owns_ the town. And he wants me to come work for the company after graduation— run the development side of things in Hawkins and work with The Plant. I used to think whatever, you know. It’s a paycheck. But there are things here and that plant, the things the government are doing with the land, I just can’t, you know? I can’t help them build this town up when I just want to burn it to the ground.”

Steve knew that Billy actually didn’t know. That despite their current predicament there was no way to fully convey all the reasons for why Steve didn’t want to stick around, drafting contracts and collecting the cash, while the whole town got turned into a giant pietree dish of of bad science. It wasn’t something Steve really wanted to talk about either, so he pushed it back down. “It’s really not a very interesting story. And really not your problem. Lets just say I kinda need to stay young to avoid my father and you need to get older to get away from yours. Too bad we can’t just selectively swap….” 

The silence settled back in between them as Billy studied Steve with a curious expression. “Why are you being nice to me?” Billy asked finally, kind of out of nowhere as far as Steve was concerned. Sure, Steve had actually asked that exact same question himself to Billy a few hours earlier, but he hadn’t realized what a dick question that was until he heard it mimicked back to him. Because why wouldn’t Steve be nice? But Billy also sounded entirely genuine and genuinely confused so Steve didn’t call him out on it. 

“What?”

Billy averted his gaze _again_ as he returned to picking at the tile with his fingers. “You’re being really nice about this. I just didn’t think you’d be this nice to, well, a _queer_.” Billy gestured vaguely at himself with his smoking hand, and ok, what?  
“What the fuck does that mean?” Steve couldn’t understand why that would still be a question. He had _kissed Billy_ , barely twenty minutes ago, after all. 

“I found your book too,” Billy admitted, softly, like it was some kind of secret. 

Steve had no idea what he was talking about. “My book?”

“You’re book of ‘conquests’--” 

“Oh! The year book? Yeah, that was just a game I used to play a few years back with the guys.”

Billy still wouldn’t really look at him. “Some game.” 

Steve shrugged. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Billy scratched at his nose. “It just had some things written in it, and I just didn’t think you’d be ok if…Never mind,” Billy finished, trailing off. 

Steve hadn’t looked at the book in over a year. Had sort of forgotten about it when he had started dating Nancy. He tried to flip back through the pages in his mind now. One page in particular stood out most: the page with Brett’s picture. Steve had spent a fair amount of time when he was too lazy to get up and find someone to blow him looking at the lips in that picture, recalling Brett’s cool wet throat after a swim. He had always been so focused on his face that he barely even noticed the giant slur scrawled in Tommy’s hand beside it. It hadn’t really mattered then anyway. But thinking about it now, he could see it clearly. Could see just what seeing that might have looked like to a boy like Billy when he found it. “Oh, yeah. I guess it does say some things,” Steve admitted; he owed Billy that much. “I’d love to say that was all Tommy, but it was me too. It was just like this, I don’t know, expression? I didn’t really ever think about turning it back on myself. I wasn’t so great at irony in general until Nancy pointed out a few things to me. Explained things like ‘irony’ and ‘hypocrisy’ and something called ‘privilege’ and ‘the patriarchy’? I don’t know. Those last two are still a little hazy. I was never that great at English. But the irony lesson stuck.” 

Billy finally popped his head back up, mostly out of wary surprise. “She knew you were into guys?”

“No. I mean, maybe. That didn’t really come up. I may of, umm, had a _reaction_ to her and Jonathan last year. Tagged a bunch of walls around town with Tommy and Carol about how Nancy was a ‘slut.’ Tommy threw in a few things about Johnathan being ‘queer’ and after it all calmed down she kinda of pointed out that I was her first, sex-wise, all while I was like pushing triple digits, so that may have been a “hypocritical” move. Also, I don’t feel ashamed of how many people I’ve been with so it was pretty shitty of me to try and make her feel bad for it. And to top that all off, she also pointed out how calling Jonathan ‘queer’ for hooking up with her was totally off the mark, which made me really think about the word for the first time, what it really meant. I mean, I’d never applied it to myself before. I just like sex, you know? Never really had to think about it.”

“Must be nice.” 

“Why? Don’t you?” 

“I like sex, yeah,” Billy explained, slow and derisive, “Who doesn’t? But... I don’t know, it’s complicated. I like _men_ , Steve.” Billy lifted his hand to his neck, messaging at where the muscle connected it to his shoulder. Steve recognized it as the spot that often cramped up whenever Steve himself was stressed, that dull pinging ache that appeared there whenever his body was poised too tightly to relax. 

Steve held his palms up, a soothing motion that really just came out placating. “Yeah, I do too…”

“No,” Billy cut in. “I _only_ like men. Not ‘I like sex and any hole will do.’ And not in a ‘all people are beautiful’ way either. I like men—just men. I can’t even really _fake it_ with chicks past a certain point.” 

“You can’t?” Steve had a hard time believing the no faking part. He knew rumors could often be bullshit, but when it came to Billy and the girls around town, there were _a lot_ of rumors. “I mean, you always have all those girls just hanging off you. Jessica Cardiff told everyone at Kelly’s party that you were the best since me. She said you rocked her world.”

“I have talented fingers,” Billy deadpanned. 

“Oh?” Steve smirked, leaning forward slightly into the edges of Billy’s space. “Know how to sink your fingers into something tight and warm and find _That Spot_ , do you?” 

Billy actually _blushed_ , something shy and evasive. “Something like that, yeah.” Could it be? Billy Hargrove _shy?_ About _sex_? “Gotta keep up the appearances. But I, uh, I don’t actually… _date_ a lot.”

Now _that_ Steve found _really_ hard to believe. “Seriously? Have you seen yourself? With all your tight open shirts and that annoying devil hellion swagger, you’re like a walking wet dream. And then like when you shower? You’re like a _literal_ wet dream. Plus, I see you strutting around town all the time. How were you not getting laid every night?” 

“Who would I be fucking?” Billy asked, like the answer to that question wasn’t _anyone he wanted_.  
“I don’t know. All the girls at school? Or Karen, maybe? I saw how she looked at you at last weeks game.” 

“Who?” Billy asked again, confused. 

“Nancy’s mom. Wears all those tight leggings to games and silk robes around the house,” Steve explained. 

Billy looked vaguely horrified by that. “Why would I dick your ex’s _mom_?”

“Why not? I’ve been there. She’s a pretty wild ride.”

“You fucked your girlfriends mother? While you were with Nancy?”

“No!” Steve rushed to correct, because he did have _some_ principles. Or at least, he did once he had started dating Nancy. Before Nancy... well, something about the shocked expression on Billy’s face told Steve that Billy really didn’t need to know about the week he had dated both Erika Saunders and her triple divorcee mother, Laurie, or the other time that Jessica Cardiff had invited him to dinner and he had ended up blowing her father in the upstairs bathroom right before dessert. What could he say? Steve had always just been great with parents. “It was about a year or two before,” he offered in explanation instead. “I wouldn’t have cheated on Nancy. That’s not my style. I didn’t even know Nancy then. Karen was doing some PTA shit for the team.” Steve shot Billy a teasing smile, hoping to lighten him back up as he poked at Billy’s calf with the toe of his boots. “‘ _She_ ’ didn't have a problem with my foot work.”

Billy eyed him cautiously. “You’re fucking with me right?” 

Steve kind of loved the expression on his face. He’d never seen Billy scandalized before. He didn’t even know he could be. Steve grinned at him, poking at the fire. “Yeah, but just about the footwork. She thought my layups could be tighter, but she likes it sloppy.” Steve didn’t exactly make a habit out of talking about Karen that crassly. Even with Tommy and the rest of the guys, Steve had only ever offered a few respectful details, but the look on Billy’s face made it too fun not to push. “What can I say, the Wheeler women have good taste.” 

“That’s kind of … _gross_ ,” Billy mumbled, still mortified and flushed. But Steve could also tell that Billy was a little more _interested_ than he was verbalizing from the way his pupils had begun to open, the black dilation swallowing hungrily at the light, the way that thicker vein in his neck pulsed. Steve didn’t know Billy, but he knew what his own body looked like aroused.  
_Checkmate_. 

“Fuck yeah it is, sweetheart. And that *is* my style,” Steve leered at him. _Pushed._ The unexpected _shyness_ of Billy with sex a delicious sort of fuel. It was just too easy to make Billy blush when trapped in the current confines of his paler, rented skin. “You jealous?” 

Sure enough, Billy looked absolutely affronted by the question. “That you fucked Nancy’s mom? _No_.”

“No,” Steve corrected, lips curling slowly up around the smoke, exhaled out in emphasis. “That I’m not _ashamed_ of it.”

The look Billy shot him suggested that he was, actually: jealous, and awed, and also totally not having this conversation.  
“Have you always been this confident?” Billy asked instead as he grabbed for the smoke. 

Had he? Steve couldn’t remember. He certainly had other things he wasn’t confident about: his grades, the future, his ability to contribute to a “legacy of worth,” as his grandfather liked to say. But when it came to this, the interplay of heat and aggression, that was simply an old friend and he could only remember what it felt like the last few years to be the king of it, worshipped and adored. Everything about it felt right. “Only about this,” Steve relented. “I have my insecurities. Trust me. Sex just isn’t one of them. Everyone’s good at something right?” 

Billy didn’t look all that convinced. “Yeah… Well, all I’m good at is fucking up. Just ask my dad.” 

“Your dad’s a fucking asshole,” Steve told him, plucking the cigarette easily back out of Billy’s fingers and taking another drag. Billy snorted in agreement but didn’t offer anything else so Steve kept going, “Mine is too. Or at least, I assume he is still. I haven’t seen him in twenty-six months.”

“He leave you and your mom?”

“Nope,” he said on another inhale of tainted air. “My mother’s with him. I haven’t seen her either. They transfer money into an account for me every month, that hasn’t stopped, so I assume they’re still alive, or their lawyers are. Who knows. It honestly wouldn’t make much of a difference at this point.” His words were flippant and harsh, but Steve knew deep down they were true. 

“I thought you said they were coming back in April?”

“I said they would be gone until at _least_ late April—that’s a guarantee. Anytime after that is just a pretty safe bet,” Steve sighed out his final exhale, stubbing out the remains of the smoke on the granite tile, letting the flame turn to ash on the stone.

“That’s… kind of insane. Why did they leave you?”

And wasn’t *that* always the question. “I don’t know,” Steve shrugged, like he didn’t care, but he knew the catch in his voice betrayed him. “People tend to do that though. It’s hard not to notice that I’m the common denominator in all those equations, so deduce what you will from that.”

“That you’ve had the great misfortune of not knowing the right people.” Billy replied, surprisingly quick and surprisingly smooth, if not a little old fashioned. Like one of his books, an unknown layer tucked below that he kept hidden and safe. 

Steve studied him, tilting his head. “Fancy words, Hargrove. You still could too, just wait.”

Billy finally met his gaze straight on for the first time that night since the panic had taken hold. “So much for those first names, huh? But nah, I’m not going anywhere. You have something I want.” The way Billy said it, curling his tongue carefully around the words like a promise made Steve’s pulse race. 

“You’ll get your body back,” Steve said.

“I was talking about yours,” Billy countered, softly, almost shy in its admittance, but there was something playful there too, a spark. 

Steve quirked a brow, regarding his face carefully, trying to see past the familiar features to read Billy behind them as his pulse picked up, fluttered in his chest. “Yeah? You like my body, ‘Billy’?”

Billy held his gaze this time, a silently determined and rising challenge. Steve watched as Billy licked slowly at his lip, then nodded. 

Steve studied him. The air suddenly thick between them: not so much fire as a current, the build of an electrical storm. Steve knew what he had done to Billy’s body when he had a room to himself, when he had been left unsupervised with Billy’s flesh. Steve wondered if it had been the same for Billy. If Billy had gotten home all alone in this big house and decided to do some _exploring_.

“Did you touch it?” Steve asked him, teasing and curious. “You were all alone in this big empty house. All alone with that body of mine that you claim to like so much.” Steve reached forward to pluck the remains of the other dying cigarette from Billy’s fingers before he settled back against the door. He could feel the old tendrils of the former King swirl and settle into his bones. A resurgence of confidence and candor as he let the muscles of his shoulders fall loose and his head tilt, eyes hungry, curious. “So what did you do to it, huh, Billy? What did you do to _me_?” 

Steve took in all the signs of Billy’s response: how his eyes went wide, face flushed. The way his throat choked out the slightest whimper. The reaction spurred Steve on, awakening old confidences and patterns that he thought he’d lost. The King was _back_ and Steve already loved it. He let it fuel his voice, let the grit of Billy’s vocal range drop deeper, pressing heavier on the midwestern vowels so that Billy would hear only Steve in his voice. 

“Well look at that. Eyes wide, face flushed. That little whimper. You did, didn’t you?” Steve grinned, knowing. “Yeah, you _did_. It’s okay, you can tell me. I touched you.”

Billy flushed deeper at that, eyes fluttering as his pulse rate visibly sped up, and Steve loved that combo: Billy hard, wanting, and _embarrassed_. “You did?”

“Have you seen yourself?” Steve countered, tilting his head down to deliberately run his eyes over the borrowed body around him pointedly. “Of course I did.” Steve let his gaze track back up to Billy’s slowly, studying all the familiar reactions of his own form as it outwardly displayed whatever Billy was internally thinking, feeling. “Do you want me to tell you how?”

Billy nodded, transfixed and hungry. Steve wasn’t all that surprised that Billy wasn’t as much of a talker. Afterall, Billy was likely not all that used to being able to actually ‘talk’ about what he wanted. If Billy was more used to picking up older men in bars, he’d probably mostly only fucked quick and in the dark, folded against cramped spaces or rough walls. Maybe even ‘tried not to make any noise during’ or whatever ‘real’ men did. But Steve had never had to question his desires, and he was never short on space and time. This was one thing Steve _could_ talk about and he was happy to show Billy how. Steve had no doubt now that Billy would show him all the more physical things he’d pry long-since mastered with his own body in return. Billy, it seemed, had always been more physical than verbal. But Steve, Steve was a talker, has always filled any empty silence with sound. And he could show Billy how; Steve could do that for him. Show him what it was like to vocalize desire with the confidence befitting a king. 

So Steve made a show of it, moving his body slowly forward until he was firmly pressed into Billy’s space. Billy seemed to curl forward on reflex, fluttering just on that precipice of contact. Steve let the bare inch between them hover, lowering the volume of his words to the murmured whisper of a secret. “First thing I did was strip off all your clothes. Bared every inch of your skin, all for me to see. I looked _everywhere_ , Billy. I know every scar and mark you have now, but the one I gave you is still my favorite. I got right up close to that full body mirror of yours and watched what your face looks like when I touch you. You know, you have surprisingly sensitive skin. I found seven different places on you that make you feel _so_ good. And the top of your legs, right below this fat, fantastic curve of your ass, is so very very very sensitive. Did you know that?” Steve reached behind himself to skim his fingers over the spot, just in case Billy best learned with visual aides, and smiled. “Do you touch yourself there? Tickle the skin while you stroke yourself off? Or does that take too many hands? Because you know what else I noticed, that I find _very_ interesting,” Steve leaned in, brow quirked as he pressed slightly further against the slim gap of space between them, “is that you can’t seem to come without something in your ass.”

Steve pulled back, waiting expectantly for Billy to confirm it. Even though he didn’t have to because Steve _knew_ ; he had _felt_ it: the overwhelming need, the sense of empty dissatisfaction until he had breached and pushed his way in. How blinding Billy’s orgasm had been, crashing over him and clenching around his fingers. But he asked anyway, “Am I wrong?”

Billy looked a little dazed, awestruck, like he was only really seeing Steve full and for the first time now. “No. No, you’re not wrong. Holy fuck, Harrington. _What_ the fuck.”

Billy didn’t wait for a response. He lunged at him, teeth sinking into Steve’s lips as he kissed him hard. And there it was again, the fever-pitched heat of the flames. 

Steve let Billy press him back until his back hit the wall and then flipped them, slamming Billy hard against it instead. *Billy’s body* was heavier than Steve’s, thicker with muscle and Steve pressed it down against him, let Billy feel the weight of it. His own torso felt slighter under Billy’s hands, but still solid and warm. Steve knew what it felt like, to be pressed up and under that hot weight. He wanted to show Billy what he had been missing.

“Feels good right? Your body against mine. Fuck. Every time, every time you pressed up against me on the court, this is what it felt like.”

Billy moaned against Steve’s mouth, nodding as he planted his feet; finally showed Steve just how to position his body to counter the weight, pressing himself right back.

The feeling of collision was everything Steve thought it could be, their bodies drawn to one another in a way they always had before, but finally allowing the other in. Steve wanted to know everything about Billy and the body he’d admired since the first day he saw it. The body he knew he had not spent nearly enough time in to know all its pieces. Not in so few hours. And not while having to figure it out on his own. But Billy was here now; Steve could _ask_. So he does, nosing against the shell of Billy’s ear, absorbing the shiver that ran through him as Billy curled his fingers into his spine in return. 

“Tell me something I missed,” Steve demanded. “Something about what your body craves that I couldn’t know without you there.”

Billy broke his lips away, just enough to inhale a raspy breath and push it back out on a laugh. “Jesus. So this is the ‘King Steve’ I’ve heard so much about, huh?”

Steve cocked an eyebrow back at him, waiting for a more direct response to his question. The message coming loud and clear that this side of Steve would only ask something _once_.

Instead of using his words, Billy complied physically instead, latching his teeth into the crook of his neck where he began sucking soft but deep into the muscle where it curved into the top of his shoulder. The pleasure of it burst around the nerve cluster and Steve moaned again, body buckling with the euphoric rush of it. “Fuck. Yeah, that’s it,” Steve panted as his fingers curved into Billy’s back. “That’s so fucking good. What else do you like? Show me.”

Billy stayed where he was, pressing up tighter against his chest and taking advantage of the longer torso of his current body to curl around Steve. To Steve’s surprise, Billy trailed his hands lightly down his spine before pulling his hand back just enough to slap down on his ass, a quick cut that made Steve hitch forward, blood singing.

“Oh my god, _yes_.” Steve hissed. “You into spanking, baby?” The endearment rolled off his tongue, thick and natural. Billy’s answering moan could have been for that, the question, or both.

And fuck, _spanking_ , Steve hadn’t even thought of that, which he should have, had even said and felt for himself how sensitive the sit spots of Billy’s ass were. Anyone Steve has ever known for longer than twenty minutes could have confirmed that Steve had always been an “ass man,” and even if Steve hadn’t been before, he would have sank right down to his knees and converted anyway after seeing Billy’s. Steve hadn’t thought of anything else while rubbing one out besides playing with Billy’s ass since Billy had arrived in Hawkins, only ever finding that pure point of release to the ghost visions of fucking it open sloppy and raw, on his fingers, his cock, his tongue…. Point being: Billy had an _ass_ and there wasn’t a single thing that Steve didn’t want to do to it. And spanking, yeah, Billy’s ass was perfect for it: Round and as thick and as hard as the rest of him.

Billy did it again, bringing his hand down three more times in quick little hits until Steve was panting, positively euphoric with the implication of all the possibilities. “Holy shit, yeah, yeah I can feel it,” Steve assured, hips reflexively tilting up to chase the contact. “Who would have known? God your ass is so sensitive. I wanna spank you _so_ good. When I get back into my body, I’m gonna. You want that? I’ll even put you right over my knee if you want.”

Billy flushed but nodded, head tilting forward into the crook of Steve’s shoulder as he moaned, shuddering against him slightly from the sheer _idea_ of it.

“Fuck, Hargrove,” Steve purred back at him, grin spreading wide across his face as he felt Billy’s shiver of need, his want for Steve to _hurt_ him, just a little; maybe even _dominate_ him and Steve felt the smiling split of his lips grow wider, “Fuck, yeah, you’re going to be so much fun.” 

“What about you?” Billy deflected, still flushed-- _blushing_.

Steve grinned at him, confident that with the extra aide of Billy’s wolfish smile he’d look even more feral than he could ever have managed on his own. “I like to be in control.”

Billy smirked back at him. “So I’ve noticed.”

“That a problem? _Sweetheart,_ ” Steve added, laying the endearment on thick, predicting just what it would do to Billy. How it would make the corners of his eyelids twitch and flutter. It does. “What do you say? You like the idea of letting me take control? That you can just let all that fight and furry in you go and roll over for me?” 

Billy didn’t rush to say ‘yes’ to that, not exactly. But “The King” in Steve couldn’t help but notice that Billy, when flustered, moved his body a lot like prey. So Steve goes in for the kill on instinct anyway, pushing him back against the wall again to slide a hand down between them, palming at his dick through his track pants. Steve had touched the cock below his palm many times, but never from this angle. It felt odd to touch the swollen, hard length of it with _Billy’s_ foreign hand. Still natural, but different. The cock beneath his fingers felt autonomous, even more imbued with a life of its own than it usually was. And yet, Steve knew precisely what it felt like to have a hand on his dick like this, rubbing rough over the fabric, the bittersweet friction of it. Steve watched as Billy fluttered his eyes, head thumping back against the wall as he groaned. “Yeah, you feel that?” Steve asked, because he knew Billy did. “ _*My* cock_ feels even bigger against _your_ hand, doesn’t it. Yeah, this body of yours is _aching_ for it. I can feel it. You just like to be _full_ , huh. I got ya.” Steve pushed in a little stronger with his palm, rubbing against the burn of the nylon as Billy fucking _whimpered_. “You think this will fill ya up? You wanna see? You want to put my cock in you? Slide it in all tight and snug into this hot hard body of yours? See if it fits?”

Billy gaped at him, obviously still more than surprised by Steve’s confident aggression, eyes a little dazed in what looked like awe as he swallowed, throat working thick and dry. “Fuck, Steve. You really do have some fire in you. You’re quite the filthy motherfucker, aren’t you?”

Steve studied him for a moment with a cocked brow. Billy waited, unmoving from where Steve had put him and Steve slot a leg between Billy as a reward, let him have the micro thrusts of movement that Billy subconsciously fell into as he rubbed his cock against the offered thigh. Their lips were so close; he could kiss him. “Disappointed?”

Billy grinned, those lips splitting wide. “Hell no. More like _impressed_.” He trailed the tilt of his his gaze down to look at the press of Steve’s hand between them, the braced offer of his leg. Billy hiccuped a moan as he thrust, picking up speed. “Yeah, I want that thing in me, of course I do. Can you see it? Jesus. I’ve had dreams about that thing, Harrington. Vivid ones. For _months_. And that was even before I knew how goddamn _big_ it is,” Billy groaned, a hitch in his rhythm, and Steve couldn’t help but notice the whites of his eyes as they rolled upwards in his skull. But Billy was still breathing, still goading Steve right back. “Seriously, the _size_ of you. It’s fucking inhuman.”

“Billy Hargrove, the secret size queen,” Steve teased, breathed it really, like some dark secret, which, Steve supposed, it technically _was_. 

Billy scoffed but nodded, hips working too quickly to let in the dark shame of it. Billy surveyed the size of Steve’s cock instead in an exaggerated slow scan of his head from above it before flicking his eyes back to Steve’s, the twist to his lips playful, dangerous. “Lucky for you.”

Steve wasn’t done with him yet, not even close. Especially if Billy was still capable of pushing him back. He got back up in Billy’s space, using the bulkier weight of *Billy’s body* to his advantage to pull Billy in only to slam him back up against the wall, pushing a leg harder between both of Billy’s just to hold Billy there. “So seriously, _baby_ , you think you can fit me in you? That you can take it? Not everybody can.” Steve threw in an eye lash flutter for good measure, because sometimes it was just fun to be an asshole.

“A pervert and a goddamn tease, dreams really do come true,” Billy mocked back, but Steve could also tell he was kinda serious.

Steve flashed his teeth at him, stepping back suddenly enough that Billy pitched forward; forcing Billy to reach out quickly for Steve’s shoulders to catch and right himself. Steve felt Billy’s fingers curl tighter around his shoulders as Steve spread his arms in offering, presenting *Billy’s body* to Billy like an offering. “Well, work your body open then. Show me what you need.”

Billy surged the rest of the way forward, arms wrapping all the way around Steve’s frame to slide down to his ass. “Pocket,” Steve breathed as Billy’s mouth found his. Steve felt Billy’s hands slide into his pockets as he pulled the sweats down Steve’s thighs, his other hand coming up with a packet of lube. Billy broke his mouth away for a beat to stare at it. 

“How long have you been walking around with this?”

Steve offered a wickedly innocent smile, “Just since coming here. It was in your car.” 

Billy hummed as he pulled Steve back in, using his teeth to tear the packet open and slick up his hand. However good it had felt to touch Billy’s body earlier alone in Billy’s room, to finger his ass open and thrust against his hand, it still didn’t compare to this. Having something exterior touch him, to have someone else's fingers, which were technically Steve’s _actual_ hands, pushing and stroking their way in felt better for this body than Steve could have imagined. Steve had been right though, his real fingers were longer, went into Billy deeper than Billy’s own hands could reach. They were perfect, and Steve told him that. “I knew it. I knew when I was touching you that *my* fingers would be perfect. That if I had my body back I could work you open so deep and good. Fuck, Billy, right there. You got it.”

Billy huffed out a laugh at Steve’s audacity and Steve let himself get lost in it. In the sensations of Billy’s body as Billy prepped it for him. Billy knew his body well, had obviously had enough practice to know all of his own angles and needs. Steve did what he could to note every part of it. The way Billy favored pressing just to the right of dead center, preferring the slight indirect tease of it. Or how he pressed a second and then third finger in before he maybe should, presumably on account of how the burn of it lit his body up. Steve wanted to just stay like this, lost in the sensations of Billy’s body and what Billy felt like when Billy touched _himself_ , learning just how Billy liked it. How he needed it. But Steve had never been selfish with sex. That was one of his many secrets: to focus on the other’s pleasure until all they saw was him. He wanted to make Billy feel just as good, better even, than Steve was feeling while in his borrowed skin. Especially since, like Billy, Steve knew exactly how to touch himself. 

Steve managed to conjure up the will to break away, pulling Billy back away from him just enough to look him over. Billy went to question him, Steve could see his lips begin to move, so he brought a finger to them, a universal “shushing” motion that made Billy quirk up a brow. Steve traced his eyes over his own form. It was like looking in a mirror only it wasn’t at all. This body was a person, solid and real in a way his reflection never had been. Seeing his own body in three dimensions somehow made it not entirely his, but also still so familiar. Steve had been intimate with the flesh before him for years. Had often admired what he could see of it when looking down or when looking into glass. He was pretty hot, he’d admit. Maybe not as hot as Billy, physically, Billy being the goddamn adonis that he was. But he would definitely fuck himself if he met his body as a stranger at a party. And that didn’t even factor in the fact that his body was currently _Billy_. And there really wasn’t anything Steve could think of that he didn’t want to do to Billy. And Steve had a fairly active imagination.

Steve also had always had pretty low inhibitions. He was known for it and he was proud of that. There was a game that sometimes came up at parties. When everyone was drunk enough to want to cross personal lines, but too lazy and relaxed to do it physically, they’d ask questions instead. “I Have Never” and “Would I Ever” being two of the most frequent contenders. Guys seemed to always love to pose the question: “ _‘Would you ever’ suck your own dick, if you could?_ ” All the girls would always be surprised by how many of the guys said “yes”— the women reacting shocked and a little offended like that meant they were replaceable. Like somehow just because they said they ‘would’ meant all of a sudden, every guy there would be magically flexible enough to do it.

This situation didn’t require any flexibility. Steve tried to remember if Billy had ever answered the question, what he had said. Steve himself had always shrugged and said, _“Yeah, why not?”_ Like he wouldn’t think twice about it. This was the time, to put his money where his mouth was, or rather his mouth where his....

Steve sunk to his knees.

From above him, Billy cranked his mouth open wide, lips falling open in disbelief. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I'm doing?” Steve smirked, entirely too excited and smug that Billy apparently had really never known about this side of him, seemed so constantly surprised and _shocked_ by everything he did, which was just _fun_. 

“Seriously?” Billy sounded excited and a little awed.

“Yeah,” Steve confirmed, wicked and simple.

Billy matched his grin, “Such a fucking freak, Harrington.”

Steve hummed in a vague confirmation of the assessment as he went directly for the kill, pulling the track pants off Billy’s borrowed legs and swooping in to swallow himself down in one swift motion. And, ok, Steve knew he was _large_. He’d learned that pretty early on, when tales of the great King Steve’s royal jewels or whatever began to spread around the school. The next thing he knew, it’d become a staple at parties to show it off, the crowd chanting for a flash of it like some sort if party trick. So Steve knew, in theory, that he was harder to take, but this didn’t stop himself from trying to swallow too fast. And somewhere around choking on his first go, he suddenly had a deeper appreciation for every single person who had ever been in this position before.

Billy scoffed at him from above, breathless but still teasing. “I thought you were supposed to be *me*. I’ve never choked on a dick in my life, sweetheart. That’s gotta be all psychological, because I don’t have a gag reflex,” Billy said proudly.

Steve growled back at him, a sound that was entirely too easy to make with Billy’s throat, and retaliated by swallowing him whole. Billy was right, his gag reflex didn’t even _twitch_. And fuck yeah were the implications of that to die for. Steve could picture it, getting Billy on his knees the real way, when he could feel it how he was supposed to. The warm heat of Billy’s throat wrapped around him, sucking him down during a lazy afternoon up by the quarry or even a rushed and frantic job behind the bleachers at half time. Or maybe Billy could even get into cock warming, where Steve could have Billy kneel right there on the floor and keep him in him, warm and safe while Steve went about his business. Maybe even while he called Nancy up on the phone; he’d pretend to have a homework question, something she could go on about without him really listening while Steve tried not to come down Billy’s throat. And Billy could, actually, fit Steve’s cock down his throat. Billy really could take him that deep, deeper than anyone ever had. Steve still felt it though, acutely. Which couldn’t just be _all_ psychological. It wasn’t like Steve had never had a cock in his throat before, but shit, even with the aid of Billy’s impressive throat flexibility, he couldn’t even _breathe_ properly. He made a mental note right then to be sure to send every mouth that had ever been around him flowers. Starting with Nancy and working all the way back to Kevin Thompson, the kid Steve had been in scouts with, who used to suck him off at camp sleepovers in junior high. Steve hadn’t been as big back then, but still, neither had Kevin. Plus it was the thought that counted right? Better late than never. On the plus side, all those mouths had taught Steve over time exactly what he liked. He made sure to run Billy through all the highlights, hoping that the lesson might pay off in the future, when Billy was back driving his own body and looking up at Steve from his knees.

Despite all his faults, Billy always seemed like he’d be a quick learner.

Steve flicked his tongue right around the head, just a few clicks to the left of the center where he liked it best, so close to the core of nerves there that it bordered on overstimulation. Billy watched him the whole time with rapt attention as he choked down a range of sounds, all of them wanting, needful, but he remained focused, as best he could, apparently holding a similar idea in mind as Steve had: watch, _feel_ , and learn. There was one thing though, one thing that Steve could never verbally convince anyone to do. One thing that Kevin--inexperienced and exploring--had stumbled on by accident all those years ago and that Stacy Makowski had confirmed when they were drunk one night freshman year. Steve took the shaft of himself into his mouth and _bit_ , not _too_ hard, but hard enough for Billy to feel the tight, dull pressure of teeth, and then sunk in a little deeper. The reaction was immediate. Billy’s hands scrambled to his head as he wrapped them into the curls that had been falling forward into Steve’s face and pulled Steve forward, hips hitching on instinct.

“Holy shit,” Billy muttered, relaxing his grip. “You... really?” He trailed off, lost for words and the overwhelming sensation of it.

Steve bit down again slowly, let Billy feel the build of it and heard Billy whimper. Steve could feel the blunt tips of Billy’s fingers dig into his skull and looked up to watch his eyes and then his head roll back. Steve took advantage of Billy’s trained facial muscles and winked at him, pulling back enough to speak, swapping out his tongue for his palm in the interim. “It’s usually so hard to convince people I like that,” he rasped.

“I believe you. Fuck yeah, I believe you.” Billy assured him.

“So you’ll do it?” Steve countered with a teasing pull to the length, the touch just a hint too light until the quiver in the muscles of Billy’s thighs turned into vibrations beneath his hands. “When you’re back in your body, I want to do this again. You on your knees, you holding the wheel. I want to know what it feels like inside this fat hot mouth of yours. Your lips can spread so wide, I know you can swallow me down. You want that too?”

Above him, Billy moaned, fingers scrambling against the wall behind him; Steve hoped it left a stain. Some small remnant of sweat and desire smudged against the paint that Steve could see clearly when walking downstairs for coffee in the cold light of the morning. 

When Billy still hadn’t answered him further, Steve pinched at his thigh, twisting the skin in the way Steve knew would get his body’s full attention. 

“Answer me.”

Billy grappled at the wall as he nodded, “Yeah,” he managed. Another smudge, another stain. “ _Yes_. Fuck, Steve. Anything you want.”

“And you’re gonna do all the things I like?” Steve pressed, teasing the slit of his cock with his fingers, aided by a small flick of his tongue until Billy was writhing. “Everything I showed you? Can you bite down for me— really feed on me?”

“Yes,” Billy agreed readily. “Yeah, Whatever you want. I promise. Just come on,” he urged, pulling Steve back in. “Do that again.”

Steve compiled while he moved his fingers behind himself, groping a bit at the curve of *Billy’s ass*, moaning as he found the stretched entrance and sunk in, loving how _Billy’s body_ felt when it was opened and invaded. Steve pulled back, replacing his mouth with his free hand again so he could speak. 

“You did such a nice job opening yourself up for me, babe. Your body is so fucking hot. You wanna get this thing inside you, huh. Confirm that it will fit. Your ass took my fingers so well, but that’s not the same is it. I could tell you can take more though. Come on, I wanna _feel_ how much more you can fit in you.”

Billy nodded, frantic, as he tugged at the pants he was wearing until they slid the rest of the way down. Steve pushed up from the ground smoothly to grab hold of Billy’s wrist as he pulled him towards the stairs in the direction of his bedroom, determined to find out _all_ the things Billy had done to _his body_ , and then show him how to do it _better_. Besides, Steve had figured out some things about _Billy’s_ body, but he had yet to know his mind. That essential piece of the equation had been absent, inaccessible. Steve could do a lot with a physical play, but he was so much better with the mind. He lived for the challenge: to figure out the heart of desire and give it. Now was Steve’s chance, to open Billy up and cut to the core of him. To know him _completely_. To never stop giving. Billy stumbled up the stairs after him as Steve pulled his body closer. Even, or maybe especially, from inside a different body, Billy looked at him with such elation—reverence. It was heady and intoxicating and Steve moaned from somewhere deep inside his throat as he pulled Billy in for a kiss. Steve parted to breathe. “Bed,” he murmured, gesturing vaguely with the tilt of his head toward the final landing of stairs, the flush of need set deep into his skin. “Come on, killer,” Steve teased him, because he _could_. “We’re going to make sure my body fucks yours so hard that you’re definitely going to want it on something soft.”


	7. Corps-à-Corps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do note the rating change (from M to explicit), which likely should have happened already anyway. In my super perverted mind, I was like, ‘yeah this isn’t exactly _explicit_ , because these two could have much dirtier, more extreme and more graphic sex than they do here…’, but it was then pointed out to me by a dear friend that 20+ page sex scenes are by default “explicit” ones, so. 
> 
> Also, since it is that time of year, I will mention that this story does NOT contain any spoilers for Season 3. Any of the details that did/do end up resembling season three were/are actually purely coincidental. (Including the use of the name Heather; there were just a lot of Heathers in 1985 (see the wondrous film _Heathers_ (1989) for further examples of this…).
> 
> Also part II: Still without giving any S3 spoilers, I just want to thank everyone in this fandom for being the fandom that it is. For everyone staunchly refusing to let cannon be all there is to the world of Stranger Things and its characters. For continuing to produce, read, share and ignore/fix/expand/etc. away from or past the base cannon. I absolutely adore this fandom and this ship and that others are staying on board, as it were. I am so very grateful for all of you. <3 <3

**Corps-à-Corps**

Holy fuck, Steve Harrington was a _freak_.

The statement had been playing on somewhat of a loop in Billy’s head for the last thirty minutes, mind going fuzzy and a bit blank with the overwhelming heat of it all somewhere between the time that Steve had unabashedly talked about fucking bored house wives like it was some kind of idle hobby and the moment Steve had sunk to his knees on the granite floor to give Billy a close-up and personal view of what _Billy’s own_ jaw looked like when stretch to its limits around _Steve Harrington’s dick_. The moment when Steve had used *Billy’s mouth* to swallow himself down, like it was no big deal. Like none of it was any kind of big deal: not the fact that he was sucking _cock_ like some fucking _queer_. Not even the fact that the cock Steve was low-key choking down was technically _hisown_. The great King Steve sucked cock like it was something a guy could just do, unashamed by the pleasure of having the meat of it in his mouth, the salt of it on his tongue. 

Billy couldn’t stop thinking about it as he let Steve pull him up the rest of the stairs, his pulse racing so hard Billy could swear he saw stars around the edges. Admittedly, Billy had been immediately attracted to a boy called “king” for a reason, but he had no idea what to do with the wild fantasy that was the real Steve Harrington. Sure, Billy could fake bravado, go through all the motions and smile with a leer, but he didn’t actually have any real confidence of his own. But Steve’s confidence was something else, so magnetic it was almost infectious. The easy way Steve came at sex soothed Billy’s own self doubts--just a little--but it was still more than anything ever had before. Billy usually experienced enough shame whenever he touched _his own_ dick, so watching Steve swallow himself down without any hesitation _did_ something to Billy, eased the twist of guilt in his gut into something a little softer in comparison. Whatever twisted desires Billy harbored, it appeared that Steve had obviously done it all before and then some and he seemingly didn’t feel any shame in that. That thought was, well, liberating, even if Billy wasn’t quite ready to completely let go himself yet. But it made him feel safer that he could. If he ever wanted to let go completely—or rather _when_ Billy wanted to. 

And Billy _wanted_ , he _did_. He wanted to let go and give Steve any possible thing he wanted, and to feel confident enough himself to take whatever he wanted back. But suddenly standing there at the top of the stairs, surrounded by the framed snapshots of Steve’s lonely childhood entombed across the wall, Steve’s present face reflected back at Billy from the dull reflection of the glass in the frames, Billy finally fully realized that this was _happening_. Steve _wanted_ him. Steve--King Steve--the boy of Billy’s goddamn dreams, wanted to fuck him, intended to fuck him, _now_. Or, rather, from the sounds of it, Steve wanted *his* body to fuck *Billy’s*, their bodies playing the roles they were always meant to with their consciousnesses reversed. 

The idea on its surface was overwhelming enough on its own. That Steve wanted him. That their bodies had collided--were colliding--touching and rubbing and setting fire with every kiss and grind. Steve’s experience with sex was a known fact around the school. And even if the rumor mill wasn’t what it was, if Steve’s conquests had remained a tightly guarded secret instead of locker room news: coquettishly giggled over by the girls in the cafeteria, high-fived by the guys in the hall, and scrawled in etched tallies on the bathroom stalls, Billy still would have known that Steve had gotten around. That Steve knew exactly how to please any given body he could get his hands on. That being touched by Steve would be a singular experience that nothing would ever top. It was just in the way Steve moved. And suddenly it was like a part of Billy simply couldn’t move at all. Which was ridiculous, because Billy had moved like this before. Well, maybe not like _this_ exactly, but he had _fucked_ before (a handful of inescapable times with the girls at school, his dick half-hard as he pushed in, blaming it on the alcohol and the choking cloying scent of their too floral perfume) and he’d _been fucked_ before (a precious few stolen moments of times, his dick as hard as Steve’s diamond-studded floors, facefirst and clutching at the rough brick wall of the alley behind the bar). Added up, Billy’s experience with sex was a pale shadow of Steve’s, one that didn’t even really cast enough shade to leave a mark at all under the bright glare of Steve’s light once firmly inside his orbit. Besides, even if Billy had a more robust roster to boost his game up, Billy had always had his own body before to use as a distraction when he played. And cultivating his body had taken time. Billy had spent years building up a persona: standing in front of the mirror every night to practice all of his angles, making sure he looked as natural and carefree as he could in the light. Billy had learned how to work his body, all the ways to bend and twist to make it appealing to those who looked his way. How to add the roll of his tongue and the flash of his teeth that sparked the primal illusion that he was always ready to seduce and destroy. 

But _Steve’s body_ was a whole different landscape of seduction. Hell, _Steve_ was a whole different landscape of seduction and Billy knew there was no way Steve was about to succumb to Billy’s usual tricks. It was one thing when Billy had the upper hand. The right kind of wink or smile made most people blush, providing just enough misdirection to make whoever it was question their own lack of experience instead of Billy’s. But that wouldn’t work with Steve; Billy was pretty sure Steve hadn’t blushed over sex since 1973. 

And sure, Billy could probably mimic Steve if he needed to. Billy had, after all, watched Steve enough at that point to know how Steve moved. Billy had the movements memorized, replaying them often in his mind. The way Steve tilted his head to the side when he was curious about something, or how he’d run his hand through the thick flop of his hair once he’d figured whatever it was out, letting the strands slip through his fingers all slow and gentle like an open promise. How Steve would lock his eyes onto the things he wanted, squinting just a little as he flipped his sunglasses down instead of up, plastic catching on the dip of his nose, and that half smirk Steve would do with the wide set spread of his lips. 

Mimicry wasn’t the issue. The issue was that Steve always moved his own body exactly like he was moving in Billy’s now. Steve moved like he was in _control_. Not just casually confident, but _dominating_. And as Steve continued to guide both of them, his fingers curling tight and deliberate around Billy’s temporary, borrowed wrists as he pulled Billy forward onto the final landing of the stairs, voice whispering low and enticing about how he couldn’t wait to feel how Billy’s body felt when it shivered and split apart, it was becoming clearer that sex with Steve Harrington was going to _wreck_ him. Steve didn’t just want Billy to fuck him, Steve wanted Billy to _submit_. And Billy might be acutely, painfully _into_ that, but that was the problem. Billy couldn’t hope to fake his usual bravado in someone else's skin, and there was no way he was about to admit to that and just fully _yield_ to Steve-fucking-Harrington, no matter how good that idea sounded in the moment. If Billy was to give in—to yield and _submit_ —even from inside Steve’s body, they would both know that it was still all Billy that had finally given ground. There were some things Billy just couldn’t have, he knew that, and voluntarily bowing before the Hawkins High king wasn’t one of those things, no matter how much his knees instinctually yearned for the floor. 

The predicament didn’t leave Billy any clear options on how to proceed. So instead, Billy could feel himself locking up, frozen with the insecurity of how to be in Steve’s skin. Especially as it became clearer and clearer that he wasn’t anywhere near worthy enough to wear it. Not like this. Not when he couldn’t take that final step and admit to _everything_ he really wanted from Steve. It barely mattered though, because somehow Steve had managed to take control of both of them anyway: touching, and rubbing, and biting, and teasing, and _talking_ , and yeah, holy fuck, Steve Harrington was a _freak_.

In Billy’s defense, there was no way he could have seen that coming. Harrington had, after all, never said more than a collective twenty full sentences to him tops since they’d met, preferring that infuriating quirked eyebrow of his, angled up over his Wayfarers, or that cold, inaccessible stare that penetrated Billy to the core. Sure, Billy knew it was always the ones you least suspected that harbored the most glorious perversions. That it was always the guys that were quiet, but not shy; or completely comfortable in their skin, but not in a hurry to show it off, that were the true alpha freaks in any given room. The guys that seemed preppy, square, or wholesome at first glance only because their interior was so naturally wild that they saw no reason to rebel for show. Like Steve and his fucking _pastel_ cashmere sweaters, oh so deceptively soft and welcoming. 

Ok, so there were signs. The way Steve would always walk into a room like he belonged there, but would never head straight for the center. No, he would walk in through the door, head whichever way he was going and let the center come to him. How Steve very rarely, if ever, became fully riled up by Billy’s attempts to make him snap. Billy had pushed and prodded him from every angle, and Steve hadn’t ever reacted, never even cracked. Not, apparently, because he hadn’t noticed, but because Steve was in control of himself enough not to. He had that collected ability, that calm center that meant his reactions to the things around him were a _choice_. It was hard not to envy that, to be drawn to it. Billy had never had a choice in his reactions, he just _reacted_. The emotions would rise, and swell, and ricochet through him until he either needed to _do something_ or let them split him apart. But Steve… fuck, Steve was centered, in control of himself and his own body enough to still have space left over to extend that control to others. And here Steve was, offering that to Billy: the option for Billy to take the heavy responsibility of controlling the last part of himself that Steve didn’t yet have and hand it over to Steve’s confident hands. Something about that thought was heady, oddly freeing, and so fucking _hot_. So much so that Billy forgot, just for a moment, to even pretend to resist, instead letting Steve pull him past the top landing of the stairs towards his bedroom--Billy entirely too focused on the warm, tight grip of Steve’s fingers circled around his wrist, and the way that Steve kissed, deep but soft, like a paradox. 

 

The moment they tumbled into the room, Steve maneuvered Billy towards the bed until Billy fell backwards into it, colliding with the mattress, that stormy scent of Steve curling up around him as Billy got tangled in the sheets on impact. It smelled like ultra violet, fluorescent and wild, and Billy tilted his head toward the electric twist of cotton, breathed in deep—too deeply, apparently, for Steve not to notice. Steve smiled. Billy knew that smile all too well. It was an expression that was all Steve split across Billy’s own face at an angle too curious and bright to be good. 

“So what all did you do in my bed, Billy?” Steve leered at him, using his perch in *Billy’s body* to its full advantage, taking up space, his broad torso bent and hovering over the mattress as he helped Billy pull Steve’s Michigan sweatshirt up and over Billy’s head. The worn grey jersey joined the pile of fabrics on the bed and Billy was suddenly made painfully aware of his own nakedness while Steve remained fully clothed, save for the slight tuck of his sweatpants pulled down low over his ass in an obscene reminder of where Billy’s fingers had just been, fervently working _his own_ body open at Steve’s demand in the Harrington’s grandiose front hall. 

Steve looked down at Billy, caressing the slip of the sheet bundled haphazardly under Billy’s head and Billy felt seen—exposed. Looking up into the knowing smirk of _his own_ face, Billy felt like he was going crazy. The question was almost harder to hear coming from his own reflection. Like lying to Steve would be as pathetic and useless as lying to himself. It froze Billy where he lay, heart racing, because, yeah, Steve _knew_ , knew that Billy had touched his body without permission while he was supposed to be taking care of it. “Nothing,” Billy tried, but his pulse picked up, that frozen fear flooding back into the corners of his vision as he tried to breathe in deep. Pathetic or not, Billy was still actually pretty great at lying to himself, most of the time, and yet his conscious mind remained acutely aware that the body leaning over him wasn’t _him_. At least, not at the moment. 

Apparently unfazed by the situation, or maybe sensing Billy’s sudden change in interior tone, Steve followed Billy up onto the bed, his knees and palms coming to bracket and press in around Billy until Billy felt trapped, and yet _grounded_ , safe in the soft, tangled embrace of Steve’s indulgent luxury sheets. Steve’s weight centered him, bringing the heat back into his limbs to abate that creeping cold feeling of panic. All of Billy’s senses registering that this was _Steve_ and Steve was _on top of him_. “I didn’t do anything in your bed,” Billy clarified, all false and forced bravado, because that was technically true. 

“No? You didn’t curl up in my bed and _play_ with me?” Steve _pouted_ , like he was disappointed in that. Billy hesitated, the guilt and embarrassment of touching Steve’s body still weighed on him even though Steve had freely admitted doing much more to *his body*.  
_‘I touched *you*,’_ Steve had admitted, so casual and coy, and yeah, Steve had _touched_ him. Steve, King Steve, Steve-fucking-Harrington, had had Billy’s body alone somewhere and stripped it down, run his hands all over Billy’s skin, looked at it, teased and stroked and pushed his way inside of it. The images of Steve’s “exploration” flickered through Billy’s mind, just imagining what it would be like to watch Steve touch him like that, exploring and _taking_ whatever he wanted, and he groaned out a sound that cracked in his throat. Because holy fuck did the idea of Steve confidently stroking _his_ body, fucking his fingers into his ass with that insatiable hunger of his, make Billy want to melt out of heat and embarrassment all at once. As if Billy wasn’t hard enough already.

“The shower,” Billy admitted, reluctantly, because Steve may have touched _him_ but Billy had always wanted him to, had been thinking of his own body as something that _belonged_ to Steve well before the last twenty-four hour switch anyway, so that was different. “I touched you in the shower. Look, I’m sorry, I really was just going to take a shower but you were just so… beautiful.” Which, ok, if that wasn’t the most truly gay thing that Billy could have said— _had_ said—ever. Steve didn’t look put off by that though, if anything his eyes lit up. 

“Yeah? You did, did you?” Steve traced his fingers lightly over Billy’s borrowed sides, the soft sensation of it making Billy twitch and squirm. Billy’s fingers flexed to reach down to grab ahold of Steve’s wrists—to stop Steve from continuing his small tortures, but something deep inside Billy wouldn’t let him. He didn’t want to stop Steve or even change the pace. He did, Billy was ashamed to admit, want to let Steve do whatever he wanted, and to take whatever Steve wanted to give him—to _submit_ to him. 

“Tell me about it,” Steve purred from his throat as he took back his hands, withdrawing the very moment Billy had finally relaxed under their tease. It was an order, unmistakably, and Billy couldn’t resist it.

Billy didn’t have to think too hard to remember all about “it”—the memories of taking Steve’s heavy dick in his hand and feeling it grow, hardening under his palm in the water. How Billy swore he would have sold his fucking soul just to feel it even once inside him, Steve’s beautiful monster of a cock rooted in so deep to reach all the places in Billy’s own real body that ached for it everyday. How there were places in Billy that felt hollow and incomplete, how he knew Steve’s size could fill him, make him feel whole. How all it had taken for Billy was thinking about Steve pressing his way deep into Billy’s real, needful body until it was all Billy could feel, and he had come just like that, surrounded by slick and steam. But there was no way Billy was about to say _that_. “I just jerked you off; That’s it! I took off your clothes to get in the shower, because you have knots the size of your fucking trust fund, and I saw your cock and it was just so, fuck, ...I don’t know, _big_ \--.”

Steve’s eyes were still bright, still amused. “Yeah? Did you have fun with me, Billy? You learn anything _interesting_?” Steve pressed, eyes raking over the way Billy lay on the mattress, hands hovering over Billy’s borrowed skin but not _touching_ , likely in an attempt to see what Billy would do about it. If Billy would push his hips up to meet him or wait Steve out. Billy couldn’t help but notice how much Steve seemed to like to toy with him like that, accelerating the pace one minute, and decelerating the next until Billy felt dizzy with it, overpowered by the finesse of Steve’s game. Anyone else and Billy would have pushed right back, possibly even all the way off of him until it flipped, until he had reasserted his own control. Because no one pushed Billy Hargrove around. Except that wasn’t true. Steve did. Steve pushed him around _all the time_ and a part of Billy shamefully _loved_ it. So Billy withheld, denying them both the contact in favor of staying still, just to prove a point, although Billy didn’t really know what that point was. 

Forcing his body to stay still, he focused on Steve’s question instead. Billy had learned lots of interesting things about Steve that day, but one particular thing did stand out as his mind replayed that moment from the shower: the surprised euphoric sting of pain that was so exquisitely othered from Billy’s own experience inside his own skin. Billy nodded slowly as he reached down, just as he had done so in the shower, to his temporary torso and raked a harsh hand cruelly against the side of it, fully digging in until he began shivering with the sparkling feel of the sting. Steve’s eyes lit up brighter as he watched, seemingly delighted by the confirmation that Billy really had touched *Steve’s body* when Billy had been alone, or maybe the fucking sadist that was apparently the real Steve Harrington was just delighted to watch Billy squirm. “Oh, you *have* been busy haven’t you. Tell me,” Steve urged, “what else did you find out about me?”

Billy shrugged, remaining obstinately still as he weighed the risks of fully giving in to Steve, of giving himself over to all the things he thought about that he wasn’t ever supposed to have. Billy forced his voice to sound indifferent, unsure if the effort was successful. “Other than that you come like a fucking freight truck, nothing.” 

Steve laughed, a velvet infectious sound Billy didn’t even recognize as Steve bent over to trace Billy’s borrowed sides with his lips, once again like Steve had no problem seeing his own flesh as a sexual object, as just another beautiful source of pleasure he didn’t have to think twice about. Like it didn’t even dawn on Steve that it maybe should be weird for a guy to lick and kiss at his own skin, even if Steve wasn’t currently the one inhabiting it. But whatever Steve was doing with his mouth rung throughout his body in little fissions of pleasure that Billy could feel into his very core, so Billy wasn’t about to call Steve out on it. Instead, Billy simply stretched a bit under Steve’s touch: the wicked suction of Steve’s lips, Steve’s fingers tapping at the raw red lines Billy had made and left behind. “Ah, yeah. You get used to that,” Steve promised, adding the cool blunt tip of teeth to the curve of his torso, digging them into the skin there until Billy could feel the the vibrations of Steve’s voice echo against his ribs. “Back in freshman year, girls took it as a personal challenge or something to see if they could be the one to rock my world so hard I passed out. I think Angela had a pool going with the squad.”

Something kicked in Billy’s chest beneath Steve’s teeth, a dull hollow flash of something awkward and aching that always seemed to happen whenever Billy thought of Steve’s dick being anywhere else but in _him_. The implications of Steve’s blunt statement were less surprising than they should have been, but Billy asked anyway, “You fucked the entire cheerleading squad?” 

“Not all at once,” Steve shrugged, teeth and tongue tracing a path up to Billy’s nipple before he bit, sharp and wet. Billy shouted in surprise, torso curling up in pleasure and, yeah, the _literal_ motherfucker was serious. Billy could tell by the casual planes of his face. Steve didn’t care if Billy believed him. Which is exactly why Billy did. 

Billy scoffed a bit at that, rolling his eyes as he forced himself to swallow. “Yours is a charmed life, Harrington,” Billy tried, although Billy wasn’t sure he actually meant that. Billy had experienced enough of the squad himself to know they were nothing special. But the nerves caught up beneath Steve’s mouth shuddered and twitched and as the pleasure rolled through him, Billy became pretty sure that whatever game they were playing he was losing. Because they both knew Steve could take whatever he wanted, but he was waiting for Billy to _ask_ , like Steve had figured out how hard that would be for Billy to do and was now positively delighted to simply wait Billy out. Fucking sadist. 

Steve remained unaffected. “Parts of it, yeah.” 

“So did any of them succeed?” Billy was morbidly curious, some masochistic impulse kicking in, making him ask for details, if only to draw out this weird new game of chicken, to bide himself time before the inevitable moment where Steve Harrington would finally, officially, conquer Billy Hargrove—and all by Billy’s own admission. 

Steve had to think about it for a minute; the trip through a catalogue of memories in his mind made his brow furrow in a way Billy’s face usually didn’t bend. “Heather B,” Steve concluded, finally. 

“Yeah? What made her so special?” Billy had chem with her. They had even been assigned as lab partners once. She was just like any other cheerleader at the school: glossed over in a sheen of heavy makeup and curved tight with big hair that smelled of peroxide and lemons. He couldn’t think of a single thing that she had going for her that would make her the kind of special that would somehow become The One to get Steve Harrington to a blackout orgasm. But still, if _Heather_ could do it, then Billy certainly could. 

Steve smiled as he recalled the day in question in his mind, turning the flash of his teeth to Billy as his lips grew teasing. “Nothing, really. It was more the timing. Third one that day. I only had so much stamina back then.” And as if to prove ‘back then’ wasn’t _now_ , Steve slipped a hand down to Billy’s dick, tracing light scratches over the shaft of it as he moved further to the heavy cradle of his balls, idly stroking them in a way that forced Billy to swallow another shout of pleasure, hands shooting up to grip Steve’s shoulders before Billy let them fall back to the sheets above his head to twist into the cotton instead.

“Seriously?” Billy couldn’t remember the question, but he was pretty sure there was one. 

“No, well, _yeah_ , but no. She let me eat and then fuck her in the ass. First girl to let me try it. I fell in love.” 

Oh right, he could vaguely recall now, Heather goddamn B. “You were in love with Heather B?”

“No,” Steve laughed like the idea was utterly ridiculous. “With _fucking and eating ass_ , genius.” Steve sunk his teeth a bit deeper into his skin and Billy had enough brain cells to clock how much *Steve’s body* liked _teeth_ before his eyes were rolling back in his head. And yet Steve was still talking. Still waiting him out, one hand playing out a teasing rhythm on his dick while the other came up to circle around Billy’s wrist, applying enough pressure to keep Billy’s arm pressed down. Billy whined as Steve slithered his way back up, whispering the next confession into the soft shell of his ear. “It doesn’t always happen that intensely just by stroking one out though. Although I do come pretty close when thinking about _your_ ass when I do it... So tell me, Hargrove. If you got my body seeing black holes through the stars, what did you think about when you stroked this dick of mine off? What’d you think about to make _me_ come?”

Billy’s hips jerked up at Steve’s words, resolve cracking as Billy’s eyes fluttered further back towards his skull, because _Jesus fuck_. Steve Harrington was a freak. Billy thought the question over though. He couldn’t stop the images if he tried: that vivid moment of release and just what was on his mind when he came. He could feel himself blush. Seriously, fuck Steve’s body and all its easy tells. “You…,” Billy admitted, breathy and reluctant, “fucking me in the ass.”

Steve’s answering grin was immediate and glistening. “See, there you go. I’m telling you, Hargrove. This right here,” Steve said, reaching behind himself to grab a full handful of *Billy’s ass* in emphasis, “Complete fucking kryptonite. Works every time.”

“How is it no one knows you’re such a freak?” Billy deflected, because, seriously, he needed the deflection if he didn’t want to just fuck his pride to hell—to _beg_ Steve Harrington to just fuck him already, or even worse, to accidentally come all over Steve _right then_ without Steve ever doing a thing past a soft caress of teeth. And that would just be even more embarrassing, more _pathetic_ , than he already was. And why _that_ thought got Billy even hotter—why the idea that Steve might sneer at him, call him “pathetic” and “desperate” as Billy struggled not to come—was a thought that had Billy even _closer_ to coming was not something Billy wanted to examine too closely right now. 

“What?” Steve looked genuinely confused by the question. “What are you talking about? Everyone knows that. Like, _everyone_. I thought you saw the book? And that was over two years ago. You do the math.”

“You have not fucked everyone in the school, Harrington,” Billy gasped out as Steve traced his other hand lower too, circling it loose and sloppy around his cock to teasingly tug at it while the first maintained the agonizing slow rolling tease on his balls. Billy could only groan again, eyes fluttering as the pleasure of it curled all the way through his toes. 

And still Steve didn’t even falter. His fingers maintained their steady, slow pull. Just this side of _too_ slow—a taunt, a dare, as he shot Billy an exasperated look. “Ok, I haven’t. Not _everyone_. But still, people talk.”

Billy could cry as Steve added in his thumb, swirling it lower in a dangerous tease between his thighs, the frustration in Billy mounting at every swipe, his resolve torn and suspended inside the liminal space they had built. Steve _knew_ what Billy wanted, just like Billy knew that Steve wouldn’t give it to him until he asked for it. And yet here Billy was, refusing to cross the line and dying because of it. “Not to me, apparently,” Billy managed to grit out, a last flail at dignity. “I thought I’d heard all the tales of the Great King Steve, but no one told me that you were a goddamn one man porno.” Jesus, it would be so much easier if Steve would just _take_ him. If he would just hold Billy down and fuck his way in, never needing the verbal confirmation that Billy wanted this. And not just the sex, the sex, at this point, was a given. Billy had admitted— _out loud_ —that he liked men. That he liked Steve. And Steve _knew_ , knew Billy wanted him and had been fucked by men before. But this was something else, something extra. Billy had been fucked before, but he had never _submitted_. Never bared his throat, given over all control and said, ‘This is who I am; _I want this_.’

“Ok, so I’m telling you _now_ ,” Steve countered as he tightened his grip, causing Billy to fist his own fingers into the crumpled sheets again and twist. 

“You’re such an asshole,” Billy choked, too breathy to be threatening and so Steve let Billy’s tone slide right off him. 

“Yeah, pot--kettle there, Hargrove. Besides, you like it. You like _me_ , remember?”

“Yeah, well don’t let it go to your head,” Billy muttered. 

“You gonna fuck me or not?” Steve countered finally, unfazed. 

Billy nodded, a little more frantically than he had intended the movement to be, because that he could do. That was just him simply responding to what Steve had asked for and not Billy having to speak the words out loud himself. “All you needed to do was _ask_ , pretty boy.” And OK, maybe Billy was pushing it, but it felt like a win, for Steve to be the one to say it first.

Steve just smirked at him as he tossed Billy a bottle of slick, pulled from somewhere beneath the pillows with a wry twist of the lips like Steve could see right through him. Steve looked at him that way a lot, all the time. Like he could see right through all Billy’s bullshit. It made his knees weak. Billy let the lube pour out over his fingers, making sure it was a generous enough amount. The look Steve shot his way was all Steve—no bullshit confidence—as Steve crawled into the center of the bed, pushing his sweats down to his calves and bending himself in _Billy’s body_ all the way forward until Steve was fully splayed out on his hands and knees on the mattress, ass angled into the air like it was just that easy to be ready for it. 

Billy had no idea how often Steve bottomed, if he did at all. Just because *Billy’s body* was more than used to the sensation, it didn’t mean that _Steve_ was. But by the time Billy had three fingers back inside him, he was starting to doubt that there was anything Steve hadn’t done before. At least Steve seemed to take the tight stretch of it all in stride, urging Billy’s fingers deeper with filthy little rolls of his hips and _loud_ sounds of encouragement. And that was another thing: Steve made so much noise. It was incredible. Billy never let himself make much noise usually, not if he could help it. It always felt too dangerous: like Neil might be able to hear him even from a town away. So the sounds coming out of his own throat with Steve in control of it were foreign and fantastic. Steve was also a _talker_ and holy shit, had Billy not expected that before today. Steve had always been so taciturn around him: on the court, in the shower, even at parties, only ever gritting out an occasional casual word or jibe in his direction. But Steve’s mouth had been a constant source of dirty words of dirtier thoughts all night, and it was more than Billy ever thought it could be, especially when the words were so confident—arrogant even—and so fucking filthy.

Billy had thought that some of the control and confidence might shift once Steve had Billy’s fingers back inside him, but it didn’t. “Yeah, that’s the spot right there. You got it, killer,” Steve teased, spine concaving to chase the sensation as he groaned and Billy rolled his eyes, because, yeah, like that exactly.

“I know,” Billy gritted out. “I know how to fuck *my own* body, Harrington.”

Undeterred, Steve reached back and scratched his fingers into the hypersensitivity of Billy’s borrowed side in retaliation. Steve twisted his head back with it just in time to watch Billy’s reaction, his eyes lighting up as Billy shivered at the pleasure of it, and humming out his encouragement as Billy’s hips jerked forward on reflex, chasing the sting. 

Billy choked down a shout at the sharp sensations coursing through him from Steve’s nails, feeling Steve’s eyes on him, watching. The sudden feral look in Steve’s eyes was unnerving in the best way as Steve pulled away from Billy’s probing fingers to flip himself over, repositioning his body in a casual sprawl on his back. Billy watched as Steve deliberately stripped off all of the remaining excess layers of his clothes, boots thunking carelessly against the carpet as he tossed them off the side of the bed. Billy was kind of curious as to why Steve had apparently put on half of Billy’s wardrobe before he left his house, but the question dissipated as Steve laid back on the bed after, and with his soles pressed to the mattress, knees bent into the air, Steve simply parted his legs easy and slow in a lazy spread, offering *Billy’s body* up to him as if it were Steve’s to offer. Billy nearly froze up again at the sight, but Steve reached out a hand, beckoning Billy closer in a way that allowed Billy to only see Steve in the motion of it. As Billy drew in closer, Steve’s hand shot out, fingers tangling and curling around the back of Billy’s neck as he pulled Billy down on top of him. The movement was so quick that Billy didn’t even have time to think about it and so he gave into it easily, like he would with anything that came down to Steve wanting something, even if Steve didn’t know that. 

The moment Billy had folded over him, Steve looped his free hand around Billy’s wrist, directing Billy to get his fingers back inside him, groaning out another little “fuck, yeah, that’s it,” as Billy complied, sinking two fingers in deep, quick and easy. But of course Steve wasn’t done there. Steve gleamed at Billy as he began to roll his hips, chasing Billy’s fingers at a deliberate grinding pace, that dark velvet chuckle back on his lips. “You say you know how to fuck yourself, huh? You think you know your body, _sweetheart_? Well guess what. I do too now. I can feel _everything_ , remember? And right now I’m learning all the precise ways you like to be touched. All the ways you *think* you like to be touched. And guess what the first thing I’m going to do with that information is going to be when I get my body back?”

“Blackmail me with it?” Billy guessed darkly as he added another finger.

Steve snorted, but then tilted his head, considering as he took the stretch in stride. “Oh, I’m going to use it against you, yeah. But not like that. That cock of mine that you love so much, yeah, _you’re_ going to fuck your body with it tonight, but after tonight, it’s going to go back in you. Only I’ll be driving it. Tonight you’ll be moving my body the way you *think* you want it, but that’s still *my* body, baby. And I know how to move it *better*. Right now it’s just a toy to you, something you’re playing with. So, yeah, you might know exactly how to move to get your body there, and yeah, maybe no one knows how to move to get you to come faster and better than yourself, but I know all the ways to make you beg me to let you.”

And just like that, Billy was dizzy again, the choking grey urge to bow suddenly back full force, trying to pull him under. “Jesus.”

“King,” Steve corrected with a calculated shrug, like he didn’t have four of Billy’s fingers pumping into his ass to stretch his borrowed body open, “If you want to start using titles that is.” 

It was such a simple statement, as if Steve casually offering his bed partners the _permission_ to address him as _royalty_ while they were fucking was a common everyday occurrence, and fuck, maybe it _was_. Steve just surveyed Billy’s face. Billy knew Steve was looking for his own tells and that Billy was too far gone to try and block them. Billy was pretty sure Steve found whatever he was looking for as Steve’s smile grew wider. “What do you think, sweetheart? You into that? You want me to be your _king_?” 

“Fuck you, _no_.” Billy managed to spit out the words, but he knew the second after he said it Steve wouldn’t believe them. Even with all his practice at it, Billy had never been great at lying in the face of a direct question.

“Really?” Steve wrapped his fingers around Billy’s wrists from below, thumbs pressing in against the pulse points as he stilled Billy from his task of working him open. Billy paused, frozen, and Steve’s eyes flashed. “You sure about that?”

The choked sound that whimpered its way up from Billy’s throat was too quick to stop. At the sound, Steve’s grip flexed around his wrist, just this side of too tight, and Billy’s heart rate stuttered and soared; he knew how hard his pulse must be beating, knew Steve had to be able to feel it too. “Ok, fuck. _Ok_. _Maybe_ ,” Billy conceded. 

“Say it.” 

Billy felt utterly ridiculous, but the shame of that also kind of worked for him as he felt the body he was in flush, a physical reaction to a psychological kink that was all Billy’s.

“I think you do,” Steve told him gleefully. “I think you want it. Come on Billy, tell me I’m your king.”

Billy had, in fact, done just that before, so many times, but never to Steve’s face. Those were words he only spoke at night, in the dark. When his mind would wander to the way Steve had strut earlier down the hall at school between the bells; how the other people there had, as always, just parted for him as he passed by them all, a whole sea of faces naturally shifting to accommodate Steve’s mask of indifference. How often Steve would still have his fucking Wayfarers on _inside_ the building, his eyes covered in the dark lenses, inaccessible and beautiful and cold. How sometimes he would turn in Billy’s direction and seem to stare straight into Billy’s soul, that half smirk on his lips like he knew exactly what Billy was thinking, what he _wanted_. How what Billy wanted was to kneel right there in the hall and blow him. To pull down the zipper of his square fucking khakis and suck off The King in front of _everyone_ , let the entire school see what Billy really was until there was just no way he could continue to hide. How he would pretend there, just for a moment in the dark, that maybe everything that Steve was, that bright shining untouchable light of him, could be enough to keep Billy shielded and _safe_. “Not going to happen, Harrington.”

Steve hummed, a soft sound like he was caught between thought and sensation. “Maybe not. Or maybe just not _yet_. I can handle a challenge, Hargrove, especially if the goal is to see you on your knees,” Steve crooned as he shifted, slithering his body out from under Billy’s as he sat up to pull away. Billy refused to be the kind of bitch that reached out for him, so he watched, curious, as Steve slid purposefully off the low side of the bed onto the carpet. Steve’s intentions became clear a moment later as Billy took in the sight of Steve, or rather Steve’s helpful demonstration of just what _Billy’s body_ would look like when looking up at Steve’s from the floor. Steve smiled, the expression failing at “submission” by a mile as he emphasized his point with a supplicating pose—legs folded and spread wide as he kneeled *Billy’s body* on the ground before him. 

The sight of his own body kneeling at Steve’s feet was everything Billy dreamed it could be and more. 

Billy swallowed, hard, the sound audible in his ears. “What, like you already were earlier?” Billy countered, as he automatically followed Steve off the bed, coming to stand above him and fisting a hand into his hair to pull Steve’s head back by the golden tangle of curls, knowing from his own twisted years of experience how much *his* body liked the sharp pull of a tight fist to the scalp. 

Steve’s eyes sparked as he learned first hand just how good *Billy’s body* felt with a controlling fist against his skull. Billy took in the way Steve licked at his bottom lip, slow and calculating, like he was filing that little fact away for later. “Technically *you* were on your knees, Hargrove. I was just along for the ride. Just warming your body up for it. Should I do it again? Let you see first hand what you’d look like begging?” Steve pitched his voice low as he spread the fold of his legs wider. Billy recognized that voice all too well along with exactly what Billy had used it for himself in his wildest fantasies. Because Steve was _right_ , deep down Billy could—would— _beg_ for it if he needed to. Because he _wanted_ to; Billy wanted to have to beg. 

“God, _Steven_ , please,” Steve said, voice pitched into a low whine as he pitched his head forward to bury his face against Billy’s temporary hip, nose pressing—nuzzling—at his groin. “I _want_ it. Want you to be my king. Please, _Steven_ , please, let me *worship* you.”

“Fuck, Steve,” Billy breathed, and yeah, Steve had read him. Had somehow seen right through to the core of Billy to the darkest, most shameful parts of himself that ached to be right where Steve was right now, at the feet of Steve’s body, looking up at that wicked razor half-smile of his that could cut Billy into shards. “That’s so fucked up.”

“Maybe,” Steve moved to clasp his hands behind himself, at the base of his spine, offering a teasing scintillating peek at what _Billy’s body_ could look like subdued or restrained. Tilting his head into the pressure of Billy’s hold on the sloppy mess of curls, Steve twisted his neck to press a soft, open mouth kiss to the inside of Billy’s borrowed wrist. And fuck, Billy wanted that— _this_ —but the right way. To be back inside his own form, so that he could be closer to the floor. Steve knew it too. “But I know it’s working for you. Tell me I’m right.”

“I can’t…,” and now Billy really did sound like he was begging, too embarrassed to say the words—to admit just how much they _worked_. He was such a fucking pussy, but dominant men had always been a _thing_ for him. He didn’t know if that was a byproduct of some epic level daddy issues or natural genetics, but an order in just that right tone never failed to have him snapping to his knees; ready to beg, _'please'_ and _'sir’_ while he opened his mouth wide. How after only ever hearing all of his life that he wasn't, Billy just wanted to be _good_. He’d always hoped Steve might have a filthy streak in him. He had known Steve could hold his own and that he wouldn’t hesitate to push Billy back and around a little bit, but _this_ guy, this confident, no bullshit _king_ was a living dream Billy had never even dared to let himself have at night. 

“Ok, so show me then... or rather, I’ll say them *for* you,” Steve crooned at him, placing another soft kiss to Billy’s inner wrist, the demure motion so at odds with the filthy promise of Steve’s tone as Steve looked up at Billy with those uncannily familiar blue eyes— _Billy’s eyes_. “I’ll pretend to be _you_ ,” Steve continued, teasing but serious. “People role play all the time. I’ll be you and you be me. So come on, *Steven*, _‘Your Majesty’_. We both know what our bodies want, what they _need_. So what are you waiting for? It’s me, _Billy Hargrove_ , and I’ve got this _perfect_ ass, it’s so fucking hard and round and _lush_. Like seriously, look at this ass on me. And I know, _Steven_ , I know how long you’ve been checking it out, how you daydream all through class about licking me open, getting me _wet_.” Steve moaned while he spoke, voice going purposefully breathier as he began kissing his way down Billy’s standing thighs, his “role play” of Billy one entirely content to remain kneeling and supplicant, all while saying the things Billy would never have the courage to say himself. But Steve kept going, lips and light kisses trailing their path further down the legs standing in front of him, from knee, to calves to ankles in a soft facade of reverence. 

“Please,” Steve breathed, carrying on like all this was really some sort of dark confession that Billy had really dared whisper in the night, “I’m always teasing you on purpose, _Steven_ — _My King_. I wear all those tight, slutty jeans around just for you. So that you can jerk off every night thinking about the shape of my ass. And you do. My ass is all you think about. Like on Tuesday, when you watched me score that final basket in the away game against Maysom and saw how my shorts got all twisted and pushed up with all that sweat glistening on my thighs. You rode the bus home with your dick so hard that you couldn’t even hold a conversation with Tommy and the guys. You just went straight home and jerked your throbbing, stiff cock off even harder thinking about _me_ , the great rebel-hellion _Billy Hargrove_ , bending over for you. Fuck, _Steven_ , you came so hard thinking about making me spread this perfect ass open for you—How you’d make me hold it open for you so you could eat it til I’m crying and raw.”

And yeah, _jesus_ — _King_ —whatever. Steve Harrington was some kind of pervert sex freak boy king _god_ and Billy might honestly pass out. “Fuck Steve,” Billy whined, breathless, “Really?”

Steve rolled his eyes at Billy’s lack of compliance in his “game” but answered Billy anyway. “Yes, I really did. Or, as the case may be, *you* did. But yeah, I do it all the time; want to get my mouth on every part of you.” Another shift of his knees and Steve’s forehead returned to his crotch before it slipped lower against Billy’s thigh, the warm pant of his lips and breath sending shivers up Billy’s spine. Steve rolled his head against the skin, words spoken into the crease where his pelvis connected to his legs. “Fuck, Hargrove. I bet you taste so fucking sweet. I still want to eat you open so bad, because out of all the amazingly invasive things I did to your body earlier, I wasn’t able to do that one. Gonna have to wait to switch back for that, but when we do, fuck yeah, baby, it’s the first thing I’m going to do. Bend you right over the first thing I see, rub my face all over you and dig my tongue so deep into you that you won’t even need this big dick of mine to satisfy you.”

Billy whined at that, he could feel it catch in his throat, as he shifted his weight to counter the dizzy rush of want through his senses, legs shaking slightly as his fingers twitched around Steve’s skull, “ _Steve_.” 

Steve hushed him, placating and smooth even from the floor. “Yeah you like that idea huh, I do too. So come on, show me. Split your body open with this huge fucking cock of mine so that I can know what my mouth has to live up to.”

Something in Billy snapped at that and he lunged at him, yanking Steve up from the ground by the grip on his hair to toss him up onto the bed. Steve went down easily, surprisingly easy to maneuver, or rather, _Billy’s body_ was easier moved than anticipated because *Steve’s body*, as it turned out, was a lot stronger than Billy had expected it to be. Steve, however, didn’t seem surprised by the sudden show of strength in the least, choosing instead to play along, arching his back and baring his neck to Billy’s sudden onset of aggression. The movement was so un-Steve like, too much a simulation of what Billy himself would do—where Billy really wanted to be in that moment. It was still all wrong, everything the opposite of what it should be. But Billy still went for it with a quick motion of grappling at Steve’s hips to line himself up, Billy’s fingers suddenly clumsy, digging into the slight give of flesh gripped tight under his hands. 

“Yeah Steven, just like that,” Steve breathed in his ear and Billy choked on a moan that was somehow also a laugh as his body hitched instinctually closer to Steve’s.

“You’re so fucking weird, Harrington.”

“And you’re so hard from it,” Steve pointed out, which was true. “So whatever. Come on, call me ‘Billy’.”

Billy did not, point in fact, call Steve ‘Billy,’ but he did comply with the other requests, a little too eagerly, as Billy curved his torso into a better angle to press his body over Steve’s. In response, Steve parted his thighs easily on a lazy smile, easier than Billy had ever been in his own skin, comfortable and loose. Billy wondered again if he could ever make his body look like that when he was back in control of it, like he actually really was in control, not a care in the world outside of chasing pleasure. The picture before him was everything Billy wished he was, wished he could be. Everything he always tried to project before his anger and insecurity got in the way. 

Billy found that he just couldn’t look at *his* face when he finally lined up and pushed his way in. It wasn’t that he couldn’t stand to look at his own body as he sunk in deep, it was just _his_ eyes, the expression in them. How Billy couldn’t discern what Steve was thinking when there was just too much of Billy’s own emotions to project back onto his face. Instead, Billy kept his eyes on *Steve’s cock* the entire way in, just as he would have done if their positions were reversed. Or rather, if he had been in his own body, looking up from below instead as Steve’s cock worked its way inside him. He watched, fascinated, as every long inch of it slowly disappeared, just like Billy knew it would. He knew, after all, how much *his body* could take. How hungry for it his body always was. Knew that sweet first rush of finally being filled after being empty for far too long. He knew Steve must be feeling it now in his stead. Billy clenched his eyes shut as he bottomed out, the sensory connection of the tight heat pinging up his spine. From above his eye line, Steve groaned, something deep and satisfied, and Billy began to move, angling just the way he knew his body liked it, so that Steve would know now too. The heat and pressure around him was perfect. He could feel how _Steve’s cock_ throbbed between his legs, like it was right where it was supposed to be. 

The feeling of it, the odd fragile intimacy of coming together at all the wrong angles, made Billy do something he’s never done during any sexual encounter before. He _speaks_. Billy doesn’t match Steve’s wicked mouth. He still doesn’t call Steve ‘Billy’ or offer any purred demands, but he does ask questions. The problem was, was that Billy had been fantasizing about Steve fucking him for what felt like forever. Since the moment he saw the guy in his natural element at that first party, people flocked all around him. Watching Steve’s cold indifference to his own small town fame, that shameful secret part of Billy had ached to bow before him, to let him in even when Billy knew he shouldn’t. And now Steve’s body was technically _inside_ his body, _finally_ , and Billy wasn’t the one that got to feel it. That thought made him frantic, desperate. It made Billy forget himself until he was moaning out a litany of questions that he wasn’t even fully cognizant of, not really. A string of frenzied thoughts that he needed the answers too, but wasn’t able to wait long enough to get them before the next thought was already forming in the air between them. 

“How does it feel to have you inside me?” Billy asked, eyes still closed for another drawn out moment, refusing to look, before he caves, taking in the pleasured expression on his own face staring back at him until it feels like a taunt, a mockery of something he can’t really ever have. “Fuck, please, Steve, you’re so much bigger than I even thought you’d be when you’re hard like this. Does it burn? Can I feel it stretch? How deep does it go? Can I feel it? Fuck, Steve, please,” Billy surrendered, _begged_. “I’ve thought about it for so long. You have no idea. Please tell me; I can’t--I need to know.”

Even through his desperation, Billy could see Steve’s growing amusement—how his eyes grew darker as the questions went on, taking in every desperate hitch of Billy’s breath and hips, until the hunger in them narrowed to a knowing point, “Oh my god, are you… jealous?” Steve murmured, a teasing lilt to his tone like he already knew the answer, before he confirmed it. “You are, aren’t you. You’re jealous that I get to feel what it’s like to have me inside you, aren’t you, Billy.”

There wasn’t really any denying it at this point, so Billy nodded, just a single curt affirmation, before he whined Steve’s name again, begging him to drop it as Billy curled forward further to bury the flush of his face into the crook of Steve’s neck. Steve, of course, didn’t drop anything, too visibly delighted by the turn in the game. The smug satisfaction was too much for Billy to take—it does something to him, in the way it highlighted just how weak he was in comparison to Steve’s gleeful ease as he shuddered, a whole body undulation that jerked their bodies more tightly together. 

“Well you should be jealous,” Steve informed him simply, breath catching on the next thrust but still so fucking confident and smug. Billy could feel the ghost of traveling fingers brush over his scalp right before the tips dug in deep, pulling Billy forward and down in a quick snap of a movement until his face was smashed taught against the curved slope of Steve’s neck. Steve used his palmed leverage against the back of Billy’s skull to push his hips upwards to meet him, holding Billy there as Billy absorbed the sudden shock of it all, body going rigid right before it buckled, surrendering to Steve’s hold. They were so close now, so close that Steve’s words barely had any space to travel before they were caressing all of Billy’s senses. “You should be jealous,” Steve repeated. “Because yeah, Billy, it feels _so good_. Your body is taking me so well, but you’re still stretched so wide. I can feel the stretch of it, the depth. I don’t think you’ve ever had anything quite this _big_ in you before. It feels new— _deeper_. You tell me, Hargrove, you ever take a cock this big before?”

Yeah, Steve was an asshole. But he was also _right_. “No,” Billy admitted, trying to breathe, to speak, without having to break out of Steve’s tight hold that was keeping Billy pressed to the crook of his skin—skin that might technically be Billy’s but still somehow _smelled_ like Steve’s. Billy’s words came out slurred, muffled into the muscle of Steve’s neck as Steve continued to thrust his hips upwards, working *Billy's ass* over *his* cock as he held Billy still on top of him, setting the rhythm and pace of it from below. Billy stayed as frozen as he could, muscles strained and taught so that Steve could use him, circle and jut his borrowed hips at whatever angle he liked, using both the always willing stretch of *Billy’s body* and *Steve’s own* dick to get himself off, with Billy just dazedly hanging on for the ride, so grateful that he got to play any role at all. “Where would I have?” Billy moaned, because he might as well confess it all at this point. “Christ, Harrington, I don’t even think I’ve ever even _seen_ a cock this big before.” 

Steve lit up at that, Billy could feel it in the way the entire body of the boy below him hummed, entirely too pleased. “Is that right… Well, how does it feel, huh? How do _*I*_ feel? I bet *your* ass feels so warm and tight around my dick. So perfect and tight. It feel good? I bet it feels like my cock is just going to pop right now, doesn’t it? That’s ok, you can lean into it. My body rides on the edge like that. It’ll feel like you’re going to come, but you won’t. Not until you speed it up, give it to *your* tight hot little ass good and hard and throw in something a little sharp for my body to send it over. My body has some stamina, might as well take advantage of it. What about you, Billy? Your ass up for it? How long can you ride before you’re _aching_?”

“I don’t know,” Billy admitted. And he really didn’t, his few minor trysts had always been fast by necessity, but his voice cracked anyway on the thought of Steve finding out, of Steve driving into him over and over until Billy’s whole body was sloppy and _wrecked_. 

Steve pulled Billy’s face in closer into the curve of his neck with the bend of his arm, fingers tugging at the wild strands of hair until Billy’s scalp lit up. Billy could feel the enticing spread of Steve’s answering grin against the slant of his cheek, the wide cut of it practically manic. “No? Well then. It may not be today, but I promise you we are going to find out. When I’m back in my body, it’s going right back into yours. My dick is going to fill you so good, just like it is right now, and we’re going to keep it there until you’re begging me to stop with every muscle and nerve you have. I want to feel you shake and break apart. Then you’ll know your limit.” 

“ _Fuck_ , Steve.” Billy was trapped in so many ways and he loved it, loved the feeling of containment, head and neck caught tight between a forearm and chest, held still, almost cradled there, like no one could get to him; that no one could touch him except Steve. Billy couldn’t help it then, he had to move, at least his hips, just a little, to chase the feeling of being deeper in—closer. 

Steve allowed it, humming a vague noise of encouragement as Billy rocked his hips. “You sure can _take it_ though, can’t you, Billy. I can tell you bottoming has never felt like this. Not for me. Your body just eats it up, thrives off it. It’s fucking amazing.” Beneath him, Steve picked up the pace, matching and then exceeding the speed of Billy’s thrusts to urge him to go faster. "That all you got? You holding out on me, Hargrove? Show me what you got. Come on, you’re running my body right now, so use it. I know you’ve thought about it. So show me. Show me exactly how you dreamed about me fucking you. Exactly how you want me to treat this hard hot body of yours. Every move, every sound. I got a front row seat and I wanna see it. I want to see what you see when you dream of me."

“You’re something else,” Billy murmured. He had been going for sarcasm but it came out reverent. It was true too. Steve was really something more than Billy had ever known. He _did_ dream of this boy. He could worship this boy, in a way greater than he already did, let Steve do anything to his body in more ways than he already had. 

“I want you,” Billy admitted. A confession that Steve couldn’t possibly know the depths of. 

“Yeah? You have me,” Steve said, so simply. And no, Steve didn’t really get it, he couldn’t. He couldn’t possibly know all that Billy wanted and be that accepting of it, that casual and calm. Billy felt raw, more emotionally compromised than he had in a very long time. It made him feel sappy, _weak_ , and that made him angry, only the spark of it couldn’t quite catch in his chest. Like Steve’s body simply wouldn’t let the rage settle into his bones the way his own real body would. The anxiety in that swirled inside him instead until it scratched at his skin. Billy felt exposed and vulnerable and he hated it, but the trapped feeling of his thoughts grew until he needed to let the words out. 

“No. I want _you_ , whatever it is that exists apart from your body. I want it. I want the core of you,” Billy admitted, and because he had no control over himself around Steve and he apparently ruined everything good, he couldn’t stop himself from adding, _“I want to be yours,”_ as quietly as he could, but Steve was _right there_ and it didn’t take much volume to hear him when they were already sharing breath, which meant that Steve had _heard him_. And fuck, what was wrong with him? Billy didn’t say shit like that, even if it was so true he could feel the need of it in his teeth. 

Below him, Steve’s face softened. “Ok,” he whispered, soothing Billy in an earnest way that lacked any of his former arrogance. “Hey, yeah. You’ve got me, Billy. You’ve had me for a while.”

As calm and honest as Steve sounded, Billy had no idea if he really was. And he couldn’t bring himself to look at Steve, not really, not directly, when all he would see was his own face staring back, like another fabricated confession to his mirror in the dark. Even though his own real body didn’t feel like his anymore, not since opening Steve’s front door to find Steve there leaning it against the wall, so much more at ease in Billy’s skin than Billy had ever felt. Steve made Billy beautiful, something other and more than what he was. And even then, even if Billy’s body would still be recognizable enough to him to discern the truth in his eyes, Billy had never said anything remotely like that before. Would have no idea what the truth of that would look like on either of them.

Billy didn’t dare to question that statement further. He didn’t want to know if Steve really meant it or if he was just saying that to be nice, to make the moment less awkward so that Billy would just shut up and fuck him. It didn’t matter though, not in that moment, as the beautiful lie of it settled over him just enough to make Billy believe it for however brief a time. So Billy just nodded, a rolling motion of his neck that he chased with his pelvis, the euphoria of endorphins taking over enough to let his mind go blank, a dull grey haze that slowly began to fade into black. Billy had only experienced the sensation once before, but it was burned into his skull: what it felt like when Steve Harrington came. Billy could recognize the dark edge of it, awaiting at the sidelines, ready to swarm in and take him under. That tingle was there in his spine, that linear atomic bullet that ricocheted through all the nerves along his central core. His mouth felt dry and he couldn’t help it; he wouldn’t be able to stop it if he tried. But he still needed that _something_. For Steve to make his body hurt; to make Billy come. For Steve to _let_ him come. “Fuck, Steve. I can’t… I need to… _please_.” Billy could feel himself begging, distantly registering the hard cut of his hips as he picked up speed, slamming into the body below him in a way that sent Steve digging fingers into the anchor of his ribcage to _scratch_.

“Yeah,” Steve said from somewhere below him as the sting sung through his body, the voice growling and dark. “Yeah, Billy, you can do it. You can come for me, sweetheart.” 

Billy swore he could feel everything in him crack and he sobbed out a sound that felt too raw for Steve’s throat, one Steve had then likely never made himself, which might have been even more embarrassing for Billy if his orgasm wasn’t already shivering through him at some new found sonic speed—or if Steve hadn’t been right there coaxing him through it with wicked, gleeful little words, like _“good, that’s it”_ and _“yeah, Billy, such a good fucking boy,”_ until Billy’s world turned from a piercing bright into black. 

It was only then, just before, in the quick pulsating beat of a moment before he surrendered to the overwhelming pull of Steve Harrington’s goddamn blackout orgasms, that Billy realized the word he had shouted as he came hadn’t been “Steve” but “King”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is yet again a fencing term: Corps-à-corps (French "body-to-body") = The action of two fencers coming into physical contact with one another with any portion of their bodies or hilts.
> 
> (As always, please feel free to find/message me on tumblr @ False-North!)


	8. Forward Recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Forward Recovery: A recovery from a lunge. (Can be used to gain ground on the opponent more secretly than a standard advance, and when used sparingly can surprise the opponent by changing the expected distance between fencers.))
> 
> *This is alas just a quick little update/transition scene, but it’s been so (re: too) long and I wanted to get something out. (For those of you that might care, I apologize for all the outside work I’ve been needing to focus on first, but this story has not been abandoned! Thank you to everyone who is sticking with it anyway. I very much adore and appreciate you.)

**Forward Recovery**

 

Billy awoke to the sensation of Steve running fingers through his hair, the glide of them way too smooth for Billy’s usual curls. Opening a single eye, Billy took in the too-familiar, deeper tan of the broad chest pillowed below his head; he was still in *Steve’s body* then. The day hadn’t all been some weird fever dream, it was real, and it was still happening. 

Steve must have felt Billy stir because suddenly the body below Billy shifted.

“You back with us there, killer?”

“Shut up,” Billy grumbled, burrowing his head for a moment against the other boy’s skin. He still felt thick, laden down with the force of expelled energy, and it was all Steve’s fault anyway. “ _Your body’s_ the one that’s the bitch here, Harrington. *I* have never passed out from a goddamn orgasm.” Speaking of which, Billy realized Steve hadn’t had one himself yet, at least not with Billy’s help. “Oh shit, did you need…?” Billy looked down but Steve had tucked them both under the sheet at some point, a fortification against the faint winter chill of the room. 

Steve just brushed him off with a shrug, a slight smile tugging at his lips. “Nah, believe me, I took care of it.”

Billy flushed. So much for rocking _King Steve’s_ world. “Sorry…,” he tried, but there really wasn’t any good way to apologize for passing out in the middle of fucking. Not to mention that Billy had still had his borrowed cock _inside_ the guy when he did it. The image of what that must have been like for Steve, Billy shaking and moaning until he had collapsed out cold on top of him, was embarrassing to the point of mortification. 

Steve’s smile just pulled wider, like he found the whole thing amusing. “Don’t be, that’s *my* body, remember? I get it.”

There was a slight tease in Steve’s tone and so Billy did what he could to match it, ramping his own response up a little bit. Laying it on thick. Anything to try and refract some of his utter mortification back on to Steve. Or at the very least, away from himself. “So you’re saying passing out on people before they get to get off is a common Steve Harrington experience?”

“Nah,” Steve shrugged again. “I’m saying you can expect for me to make sure you get off first before I even try. Usually a few times. I’ve been told I’m a very generous lover.”

And yeah, after whatever the fuck that was that they had just done, Billy believed that. And believed it in a way he might not have before tonight. Truthfully, Steve had actually always struck Billy as a kind of self-absorbed asshole. The kind that would flip his hair, croon a few pretty words, and then just lay back and let the girl do all the work. He had figured Saturday night for King Steve meant watching some big-breasted bitch simply bounce on his dick until he came. The thought of that had always twisted Billy up inside to think about even if the image kind of turned him on: the idea of Steve just idly taking whatever he wanted: selfish, carefree and lazy. Turns out Steve _did_ take what he wanted. But he gave too. Holy fuck did he give. And all with such a casual intensity that Billy had nearly broken under the weight of it. Not only broken but _begged_. Billy had _begged_ for it. He had shown Steve Harrington all his cards. How weak he could be. 

Steve had to know just how much he could get away with now and there was no way Steve wouldn’t take advantage of that. It’s what Billy would do, if their positions were reversed. 

Billy had two courses of action for damage control. Well, technically three, but he wasn’t about to kick Steve’s ass again. Which meant he could either go for denial or lean so heavy into it that Steve might buy into his bravado. Not like that had worked so well for him twenty minutes ago. It was mortifying, but the images kept coming, slow motion freeze frames of what it felt like to shiver apart as Steve held his rented body in, contained him. The horrifying but unstoppable moment of that raw, whispered confession: _‘I want to be yours’_. Jesus. What a fucking chump. 

Billy grimaced at the memory, doing everything he could to keep the tremor from running up his spine, all while suppressing the low-grade tingle of interest that stirred in his gut regardless, something about the humiliation of the intimacy making him feel flushed all over again. The worst part is that everything he had said, everything he had felt and wanted in those apex moments, had been _true_. But that was what was so dangerous. He couldn’t let Steve know just how true his confession had been. How thoroughly Steve already _owned_ every part of him--that Steve could have anything and everything that Billy was if Steve wanted to just reach out and take it. And that desperate need had only grown worse, more severe at seeing what *his* body looked like with *Steve’s* mouth all over it, his fingers and cock touching, and thrusting, and pushing. Billy might not have been able to be the one to feel it, but Steve had, and Steve had to know now: how weak both Billy and his body really were to the pleasures of _wanting_. The complete, peaceful feeling of being pinned and filled, split open so deep that he could forget the empty hunger that usually occupied the core of himself. 

Billy knew he needed to take it back. Neil’s voice rattled through his skull as it always did in times like these. The times when Billy had been even weaker than usual. Given in to his _perversions_ , seeking pleasure over absolution, the hard tone of Neil’s voice rooted deep enough in his mind to undercut the gentle bliss of everything else: _pussy_ , _fagot_ , _worthless_. He needed to make sure Steve knew where the lines were drawn. The words sat sour in his throat, caught in an acerbic kind of bubbling turmoil, but he knew he had to force himself to spit them out. Billy sat up sharply as he pulled away from Steve’s comforting warmth, immediately regretting the loss of the soothing tingle of Steve’s fingers in his hair. 

“I’m not your fucking bitch, Harrington.” His words sounded harsher than he meant them, seeing as how he didn’t mean them _at all_ , but they still sounded mean, just hard enough to maybe be believable. 

“Umm,” Steve stilled and Billy knew he was likely trying to work out the sudden drastic shift in tone. Because even Billy had to admit, objectively, that likely seemed to have come out of nowhere. But Billy also knew it needed to be said. Even with all the looming dangers of the fallout from Neil aside, Billy might actually die if the literal boy of his dreams knew just how much of a bitch Billy really was--that it would destroy him if Steve Harrington knew and saw him as _weak_. 

“Pretty sure I never said that you were…” Steve blinked at him, owlishly. Even with *Billy’s eyes*, Steve still managed to capture the woodland creature vibe. Like Steve’s go-to instinct was to play dumb; charm Billy with his confusion. It was working too. Billy could feel himself softening to it already, but he couldn’t give in. The point was to important. 

“I’m not some bitch,” Billy emphasized again, unsure of which of them he was really trying to convince. 

Steve looked back at him for a long moment, the confusion in his eyes shifting into something a bit more considering until he finally settled on a careful expression that suggested he might understand something that Billy didn’t. 

“Hey,” Steve started softly, “I know that was _intense_ , ok? I was there. And I know I like to get a little ‘controlling’ sometimes. At least that’s what people have told me before. But I’m pretty sure you liked it, right? And that’s OK. Come on, man. You think I’d think less of you because you get off on that? What kind of asshole do you think I am? That’s like obviously just a sex thing.” 

Steve’s tone, slow and steady as it was, sounded so reasonable and Billy could only quirk his shoulder in a subtle half shrug. When Billy didn’t interrupt him any further, Steve continued, carefully picking his way past the invisible landmines Billy had erected between them. “Unless you’re talking about how _incredible_ your body feels taking dick, in which case, your body liking a dick inside it doesn’t make you a _bitch_ , Billy. It just makes us *compatible*. And that’s a good thing. But we can do it the other way too instead if that’s really going to be a problem. Or we don’t have to do that again at all ever. I’m really hoping we can, but it’s your call.” 

Billy snapped his eyes back up to Steve’s, a different kind of anxiety washing over him. Whatever feelings of panic coursed through him from the phantom whisper of Neil’s voice in his head was nothing compared to the idea that Steve might _leave_. That Billy might never actually get to _feel_ what it was like to have Steve, left only with the teasing memory of the visual without sensation. “No!” The protest shot out of him before he even thought it through, wild and loud in the otherwise quiet room. Billy flinched at the sound, looking away to scan his eyes quickly over everything but Steve before correcting, “I mean. I did like it; I _do_ like it. It’s just…”. But Billy didn’t know what “it” was. That he was scared, maybe? Because he _was_ ; he was terrified of wanting Steve and all the repercussions that awaited him if he gave anyone, even Steve, the power of that knowledge. 

As usual, Steve picked up on Billy’s inner turmoil with a distressing kind of ease. Like once he had seen past as many of Billy’s outer walls as he had, he could now recite the blueprints of his interior without really even thinking about it. 

“Billy.” Steve’s voice shouldn’t sound so much like his own when coming out of *Billy’s* throat. But the sounds were all Steve, augmented further by the way Steve paused between the syllables of his name, softly stressing all the ‘L’s. “Billy, can you look at me?”

Billy probably _could_ , but he didn’t want to. So he shook his head, hearing, but unseeing the sigh that followed. 

“Look, Billy, I’m going to level with you here, Ok? Your body, what it likes and how it feels--that shit is _impressive_. All ego aside, I know my dick’s not exactly _small_ and that can actually kind of suck, you know? A lot of people even change their mind about going all the way with me once they see it. So people who can actually take it? The fact that _you_ can? Yeah, that’s fucking impressive. That’s not something a ‘weak’ body can do. Besides, you know how much I thought of Nancy. I fucking loved her. Do you think I thought less of her because she’s had my dick in her?” 

Billy scoffed. Because ofcourse Steve would bring Nancy fucking Wheeler into this, and ofcourse Steve would think that was in any way somehow comparrable. “Yeah, but Wheeler’s a _chick_.”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed easily. “So? She’s a chick who can kick my ass. Like you should see that girl when she’s determined and angry. _Jesus_.” An expression of fondness crossed through his features, something that made *Billy’s face* go soft as Steve smiled slyly and teased: “Guess I have a type.”

Billy wasn’t buying it. “She could kick your ass,” Billy repeated, incredulously. 

“Hell yeah she can— she did once actually!” Steve said, his eyes lighting up at the memory. “I said something stupid about her period. She punched me right in the face and then rode my dick to prove a point. It was like the hottest sex we ever had.”

Billy actually choked on his next inhale of air at that one. Steve patted him on the back as Billy coughed until he managed to grit out a very Max-like “ _GROSS_.”

“It’s a perfectly natural part of the body, Billy.” Steve mimicked Nancy’s voice disturbingly well.

“Ugh, yeah, well so are vaginas and I don’t want to stick my dick in those either.”

Steve shrugged, eyes still glinting with mirth. “Fair enough.” He paused again, Billy could feel the weight of his gaze scan and settle over him. “It’s ok though, Billy,” Steve added. “You’re OK.”

Billy still felt twisted up about the whole thing. He’d never been great at regulating his emotions on a regular day, his internal landscape usually just a swirling chaotic void of entropy. And even then, Billy had still experienced more emotions in the last twenty-four hours than he had in possibly his entire existence and his capacity to filter them in any way was wearing thin. Besides, *Steve’s body* wasn’t helping matters in the least, still sluggish as it was in its post-orgamsic state. The combination proves a deadly one to Billy’s resolve to stand his ground. There was no use denying his weakness when he felt this fragile, ready to rip and spill at the slightest pull of the thread. “Ok,” he relented with an echo of Steve’s words, his shoulders relaxing slightly at the admission. There was an odd sort of relief in letting Steve tell him he was OK. Like it was a decision that Steve could make for him, one Billy could let himself feel because Steve had told him it was so. 

Steve brightened as Billy yielded, impressively braving the potential dangers in reaching out towards him to tug Billy back in against his side. Any attempt at a protest was weakened by Billy’s compliance to Steve’s grip, and he reluctantly let Steve guide him back in. It was still weird being this chill with Steve, this civil. To give up and in so easily with just a few of Steve’s pretty assurances. He felt raw: frayed and exposed. Billy blamed the orgasm.

“Why do you have to keep bringing up _Nancy Wheeler_?” Billy grumbled instead. 

“Because it’s hot how jealous you get.”

“I do not.” 

“Ok,” Steve concurred, too easily. 

“Fuck you.” 

“Ok,” Steve repeated, a dark suggestion underlying the word. The unspoken promise of the tone was enough to kick up another electric current of arousal inside him that made Billy feel weak all over again; Billy really, actually might punch him. 

“I’m trying really hard not to punch you in the face right now.” It was an idle threat. But it made him feel better to make it. 

That was until Steve just hummed, letting his fingers slide their way back into Billy’s hair, the blunt tops of his nails combing through the strands. “Sure, but we just established I _like_ that. Nancy Wheeler, remember?” 

If whatever Steve was doing to his scalp didn’t feel as good as it did, Billy would have likely fought back with a bit more vigor. But as it was, the tingling lull of his fingers reminded Billy just how loose and uncoordinated *Steve’s body* still felt post-orgasm. So Billy scoffed instead, closing his eyes. “I can’t believe I used to wish you’d talk to me.”

“I can’t believe that either.” Steve’s words sounded softer, truer, and Billy rolled his eyes from behind his lids. Steve Harrington, always the charmer. A real pervert-romantic. 

“You’re very romantic for such a total fucking freak.” 

Steve laughed. “I think you’re pretty keen too, killer.” It apparently didn’t even matter that the laughter should have sounded like *Billy’s own*. It didn’t. Billy had never laughed like that, something so fresh and bright. The sound was all Steve, melodic and soft like the tracks of his cassette tape, and Billy’s heart fluttered, trying to match its beat. He really was such a pussy. 

He needed another cigarette.

“Got any more smokes?” 

Steve had to have more in the room somewhere. Billy had always thought he was the champion of sucking down air, but he’d watched Steve too closely over the last, well, _three months_ , to know that Steve had an even stronger habit of lighting up when he needed a distraction. But that didn’t mean he knew where Steve kept his stash. He hadn’t actually done much of a thorough search of Steve’s room in the end. Not after finding Steve’s Book of used up Conquests had left him feeling both like he was violating Steve’s space while also feeling inexplicably violated. 

“UmmHmm, underwear drawer,” Steve answered easily. 

When Steve still hadn’t moved, however, Billy looked up at him, quirking up *Steve’s brow* to simulate the guy’s signature expression as it became increasingly apparent that Steve expected Billy to get them. Like Billy should just know where Steve’s underwear drawer was or something. 

“Yeah, _ok_ , but which one is that?”

“You didn’t go through my underwear drawer?” Steve looked honestly surprised, so much so that his hand paused its slow strokes through his hair. Billy once again immediately missed the soothing movement of it. 

“No. Why? You go through mine?” Billy pushed his head back against Steve’s hand. Trying to get him to move it again, not wanting to think too much on how the motion of it made him feel like some kind of animal. Some sort of domesticated house pet. And then tried even harder not to think too hard on why that _worked_ , brushing off the way the thought of Steve treating him like some trained and treasured _dog_ made his mouth go dry and numb. 

“I would of if you _had_ one,” Steve told him smoothly, like the consideration of privacy hadn’t even crossed his mind. And, well, considering all the other things of Billy’s Steve had taken the liberty to prod around in, it wasn’t really a surprise. “What’s up with that anyway?”

Billy shrugged, subdued by the way Steve resumed the ministrations of his hands, melting into it. Billy’s lack of a real room wasn’t really a conversation he wanted to get into right now, or ever. “Bag works just fine. I like to keep it mobile. Rolling stone and all that.” 

Steve eyed him skeptically, “Uh huh, but you still don’t have any _underwear_ , even in your oh-so-portable bag.”

“I don’t like _wearing_ underwear,” Billy shot back, because, well, he didn’t. And the other reason… well, Steve had to have figured it out by now anyway, considering. The bastard probably just wanted to hear Billy say it. Which, whatever. It’s not like Billy could be any more embarrassed at this point. “ _Fine_ , my jeans are too tight, ok? You’ve been wearing them all day. I’m sure you noticed that there’s only so much room in there.” 

Steve’s lips twitched, and yeah, he had known that answer already, the smug asshole. 

“Maybe you should buy jeans that actually fit,” Steve suggested, _helpfully_ , like it was that simple. 

And sure, Billy could buy bigger pants, but in his arguably more limited experience than Steve’s, the cut of his jeans had still never failed him. Billy lifted his hand up from the mattress in favor of placing it beneath the sheet covering Steve’s borrowed lap, running his hands up his legs, feeling out the familiar lines of his own thighs. “You really want me to?”

Above him, Steve shivered out a sigh. “Fuck no.”

The answer pleased Billy more than it should. But he did wear his pants as tight as he did for a goddamn reason and he liked being seen by Steve; it’s all he’d wanted since he came to Indiana. “See, they got your attention, apparently.”

“You would have had it anyway,” Steve said, boyishly charming as ever even as he withdrew his hands from Billy’s hair again in order to stretch past the side of the bed, digging around in the dresser beside it. 

“You trying to sweet talk me, Harrington? Work your way into my pants? Because I’m pretty sure we just established that you’ve already been in them--literally.”

Steve hummed as he emerged with a pack, lit a cigarette, and then simply held the stick out to hover just past Billy’s lips, holding it steady for Billy to tilt forward and take a long drag without his hands. The act was an oddly intimate one. Smooth and casual. Billy wrapped his mouth around the paper to inhale, overshooting the head so that the curve of his lip brushed against Steve’s fingers. That rapid pounding was back in Billy’s chest again and Billy shuddered around it, holding the thrum of his pulse and the smoke together in his lungs. 

“I kind of figured that would do it, you know?” Steve mused as he took his own pull of smoke, his mouth connecting to all the points on his fingers where Billy had just been. “Like somehow that would make us switch back.”

“What? Why?” Billy managed as he blew out a breath, the force of Steve’s fucking blackout orgasms still fighting to pull him under in the aftermath. Shifting, he settled back against the broad pillow of Steve’s borrowed chest. Billy had spent a lot of time over the last year on weight training and his torso had gotten _thick_ \--full valleys of muscle that he was rather proud of. The work he had put into his body had initially been a thing of survival. A thicker physique kept most threats outside of Neil’s at bay and toned muscle was harder to bruise. But he had never really thought about what it might feel like to have someone lay against it. Or what that would feel like for the other person. But *Steve’s head* felt just right against *Billy’s chest*, like Billy had been unknowingly shaping his own body overtime to create a place for Steve to rest. He wondered if Steve would sense it too, if he would be able to feel the way his body fit against Billy’s once they were finally switched back. If they ever did. And if Steve would really still want this once they were. 

“I don’t know,” Steve shrugged, his torso flexing under Billy’s head with the movement. “The kids are always reading those comics and stuff where freaky shit happens and it’s generally solved by shit like this.”

Billy cracked an eye open. “What? You saying my step sister reads shit about problems getting solved by people fucking each other in the ass? What the fuck, Harrington. What kind of babysitter are you?”

“No,” Steve choked around the smoke as he swatted at Billy’s prone form. “Like body swaps and stuff are generally fixed after a ‘transformational experience’ or whatever,” Steve air quoted. 

Billy relaxed into a grin, lupine in a way that was all Billy as he stretched his arms wide, knuckles brushing against Steve’s mass of pillows. He might as well make the best of Steve’s attention while he had it. “You saying my ass is a transformational experience, Harrington?”

“That is *not* what I just said.”

Billy grinned back at him, “Pretty sure it was.”

“Well I--Wait,” Steve blinked, casting his gaze around the room like he was just seeing it for the first time. “Did you clean in here? I can see the carpet.” 

The unexpected trajectory of Steve’s statement caught Billy by such surprise that he laughed, the sheer action of it making him feel suddenly lighter than he had in years. 

“Uh, yeah, but only because this place was a fucking _disaster_ area. I needed to do something about it if I wanted to actually find the bed. Seriously, Harrington, do you even know how to use a washing machine?”

Steve, thankfully, left the fact that the house had four other bedrooms that Billy could have slept in instead unsaid. “Nope. But it doesn’t matter anyway. You know I like it _filthy_ ,” Steve leered. 

“Jesus, Harrinton. You can’t even keep it in your pants for like five seconds, can you.” 

“You really want me too?” Steve mimicked back at him. 

“Fuck No,” Billy refracted right back. Because, well, he didn’t. 

Steve studied him for a beat with a tilt of his head. “You ever notice how much you say my name?”

“Do I?” Billy hadn’t really noticed that, but it didn’t particularly surprise him. “I don’t know _Harrington_ , maybe I just like the feel of you in my mouth.”

“You’ll find out,” Steve promised darkly. 

Billy was just about to blurt out an embarrassing, _Fuck yes,_ and _please,_ but was saved by the shrill cut of a ringing phone. Steve instinctually picked it up from his bedside table. Billy gaped at him before mouthing, “You have a phone in here?” 

Steve just shushed him, even going as far as to raise a finger to his lips like a goddamn kindergarten teacher to shut Billy up. It should have annoyed him. Only it didn’t. Steve’s stern expression and the casual liberty he took at dictating what Billy could and couldn’t do was a lot more intriguing than it should be. 

Yeah. Billy really was truly and thoroughly _fucked_. 

***

Steve shook his head as Billy mimed zipping his lips before dramatically flopping back against the pillows. No matter what body he was in, all Steve could see was Billy. Billy just had that energy, an aura that crackled around him, infusing everything he said or did with a primal kind of rebellion. And as it turned out, that held true even when he was asleep. Or at the very least in a blackout kind of recovery. Steve couldn’t fault him for that one though—couldn’t even tease Billy about it, because Steve knew _his own_ body’s tendencies, even if Steve hadn’t actually blacked out himself in years. The fact that Billy had though had been unbelievably hot. The way he surrendered so completely, collapsing into it, a heavy solid weight that had pinned *Billy’s body* down along with it, pushing *Steve’s cock* inadvertently deeper until Steve was almost sure *Billy’s body* had finally met its limit. Everything had been deep and heavy, pulled and stretched to the brink, and *Billy’s body* burned from it. Stretched that full, it had only taken Steve a single, slow and heady grind and *Billy’s body* had sparked, lit up and come in that waved sensation of his that expanded on forever, skin trembling and trapped below the slack, collapsed weight of the boy on top of him. 

Steve hadn’t even been able to move Billy after--he hadn’t wanted to. Looking down at _his own_ body slumped and nestled against *Billy’s* was some kind of altered dream. Steve had spent a lot of time visualizing all kinds of sex with Billy, but he had never thought about the aftermath. Had never envisioned what it would be like to curl his forehead into the valleys of Billy’s chest, had never noticed how the curve of his own temple would fit just so into the slope of Billy’s clavicle, the span of his fingers falling to rest into the dips between his ribs, the divots of Billy’s abdominals. *Billy’s body* had so many crevices: soft indentations hidden within the hard planes of his skin that Steve had never bothered to think about. Or at least not long and well enough to realize how much negative space *Billy’s body* had that *Steve’s body* could fill. And here Billy was, unknowingly giving Steve an up-close look at just how well their bodies folded together the moment they were finally still. 

For that beautiful quiet stretch of time Billy was finally restful, at peace, face slackened in sleep, and even though the body in Steve’s arms was technically _his own_ , it somehow just made Billy feel even more like his. 

Steve just wanted to keep him. 

The entire notion of that desire was terrifying. Steve never got to keep things. People never stayed. Steve had come to expect it, but that still didn’t make each time anyone left any easier. And when Billy had stirred and smiled only to turn so suddenly distanced and hard, Steve had been sure that had been it. That Billy was about to gather up his clothes and leave. That he might never even speak to Steve again, their embodied predicament being what it was or not. Billy seemed like the kind of guy that was so committed to denial that he could just as easily fully commit to pretending it never happened. That he could go about his day pretending that he didn’t even know Steve at all despite still occupying his skin. But then suddenly it became oddly clear. Because yeah, Billy was a master at denial. And that mastery often came with deflection--a mask of anger and aggression that covered up the fear. Steve had seen it in *Billy’s eyes* when lost to their gaze in Billy’s bedroom mirror, just like he could see the anxiety in them now rooted deep into his own under Billy’s tentative occupation. Billy was _scared_. And after spending only a day in the guy’s life, Steve had a much better idea as to why he might be. Steve might spend his days wandering the cavernous halls of an empty home, where as Billy spent his surrounded by compressed walls full of uncaring faces that either talked too loudly around him or not at all.  
But at the end of the day, Billy was just as alone as Steve was. 

They didn’t have to be though. Not if Steve could convince Billy to _stay_. Steve had no idea how to do that long-term, but he did know that such a process started with refusing to take any of Billy’s shit. Followed by making Billy feel as secure in Steve’s presence as possible, because even just half of an evening in the Hargrove’s house with its thin walls and no closed doors, made Steve pretty certain of the fact that Billy had likely never felt safe to express anything that wasn’t a fortified defense. In hindsight, Steve had maybe pushed Billy a little too far in giving up control. But there was just something about the guy that once again made Steve _push_ , compelled him to open his mouth and takeover the situation. There was just this aura about him, a subtle irresistible vulnerability that suggested Billy was dying to yield. To give in and let go. 

Steve had even felt it in Billy’s bones: the tension in the muscles that were wound so tightly that they ached, ebbing and releasing at the feel of being under a body—under _*Steve’s* body_ —the hard corners of all his angles melting under the warm weight of another person, his skin starved for touch. And then Steve had seen it. It was in watching the way Billy came. Even from within *Steve’s* body, it had been so different than Steve always did himself. Steve always just chased pleasure as it came, free and easy until the thrum of orgasm finally peaked and crashed. But in the face of pleasure, Billy had hesitated, fighting the feeling of giving in until he had finally _asked_ for it, like he needed _permission_ to seek out relief. Like pleasure was an infrequent gift that needed to be earned. Gifted from someone with the authority to override all the former ingrained lessons from his life that had trained him to think he didn’t deserve to feel _good_. 

Steve was more excited by that notion than he maybe should be. But he couldn’t help it. The very idea of Billy’s struggle, as some internal battle that he might willingly hand over to Steve’s care, was heady in its possibilities. 

Steve knew so very many ways to make Billy feel good. It was all Steve could focus on until the phone rang, the shrill sound of its sharp trill piercing through his thoughts. Billy started at the interruption, his expression warring between curiosity and disappointment as he continued to tease. Steve waived him off, signaling for Billy to be quiet as Steve heard Hopper’s voice come through the line, a little thrill zinging up his spine as Billy shot him an unamused, exasperated look but _complied_. 

“I’m looking for a Steve Harrington? I have a message here to return a call to--”

“Yeah, this is Steve,” Steve interrupted, “Hop, listen-”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Harrington?” Hopper cut back in smoothly. And something about that was just off. Too formal. 

“Umm, Hopper?” The growing unease Steve felt mounted in a strange new form of tension in the air. All of Steve’s warning signals were pinging in rather unpleasant pricks along his spine. 

“Yes, this is Chief Hopper. I was away today on personal matters; you left a message with my secretary?”

Hopper did not say things like “personal matters,” “away,” or “my secretary”... and he _definitely_ didn’t talk to Steve like he didn’t know him. And anyone who _did_ know him, also knew his voice didn’t sound anything like Billy’s. With a sinking feeling in his gut, Steve tested him. “Oh yeah, my father just needed some zoning paperwork signed…”. 

To his growing dismay, “Hopper” took the bait. “Oh, well I’m at the office now. I will be working here fairly late tonight if you want to bring them by.”

Steve rubbed at his temple, shook his head, and then realized that he’d have to say *something*. “No, that’s OK, *Sir*. It can wait until tomorrow.”

“You sure, Mr. Harrington?” Hopper-- _so not Hopper_ \--asked. “Linda said it was quite the emergency. She was in quite the tizzy.”

_Double fuck._

“Yeah, well you know how my father can be.” Hopper actually didn’t. Steve’s father had already left for Belize a few months before Hopper had transferred in from Chicago.

But Hooper’s voice just laughed, forced and pleasant, _congenial_. “That I do. Tell your old man ‘Hi’ for me.”

“I’ll do that,” Steve managed to grit out; he hoped the stilted angles to his voice would just read as overly formal instead of _terrified_. From across the bed, Billy shot him an alarmed, questioning look that said Steve at least hadn’t fooled Billy at all, which wasn’t a great sign, but then again, Steve was starting to understand that Billy might be a lot more perceptive than Steve had ever given him credit for. But then again, again, Steve guesses that with Billy’s home life being what it was, being able to read sudden tension in people was probably a necessary sort of survival skill. 

The sound of rustling papers filtered through the line as whoever was wearing Hopper’s skin took in a patient breath. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Harrington?”

“Uh, no. Thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow, sir. Thank you for your time.”

“Protect and serve,” Hopper’s voice said again, _pleasantly_. Steve wasn’t sure he could recall Hopper ever being pleasant about anything. _Fuck_ , and well, _fuck_. 

Steve shoved the phone back in its cradle with as much finesse as he could muster considering his hands had started shaking. The moment he was certain that he had hung up the phone he shot off the bed and dashed to the closet. He grabbed blindly at the first sweater and pair of pants he could reach and tossed them at Billy. 

“Put these on.” 

“What’s going on?” Billy asked. He pulled on the jeans, but forwent the sweater for the Michigan sweatshirt instead, a determined challenge to his movements like he was prepared to fight Steve on it if he had a problem with it. Steve had no clue as to why Billy was so attached to that sweatshirt over the other but it didn’t matter as long as Billy got dressed. When it became clear that Steve wasn’t about to pry the shirt off him and insist on another, Billy visibly relaxed a fraction, which wasn’t saying much considering how tense the room was. Billy was probably, understandably, confused but Steve had much bigger things on his mind suddenly. 

Billy shifted, pulling himself off the bed as he took a tentative step in Steve’s direction and stopped. “What’s happening?”

Steve ignored him as he grappled with a pair of jeans pooled on the floor, trying to pull the denim up over his legs. This couldn’t be happening _again_. But then of course it could. Of course it _would_. Of course whatever had happened with him and Billy wasn’t some isolated thing belonging only to the delicate bubble they had made for themselves. It was a troubling thought, _thoughts_ really. Who was inside Hopper now?; where the fuck was _actual_ Hopper; and just how much of the town was walking around in rented skin? And then there was Eleven, who was supposed to have come back to town with Mike earlier that night. Steve had no idea what to do, but getting to Hopper’s cabin was step one. He’d deal with the rest after that. That’s what Nancy always said whenever a problem got too hard: one step at a time, or some shit like that. Of course that was usually when she had been helping him with _math_ problems, but whatever. It would work here too. It had to. 

Apparently, problem one, however, was actually putting on a pair of jeans, which he couldn’t seem to do. Steve kicked at the tight pull of the fabric a few times, fingers curling into the waist to try to yank them up further when they wouldn’t budge. 

Billy cleared his throat from the bed. “Umm, Steve? Those are your jeans.”

Steve blinked back at him, brain elsewhere enough that it left him reeling and confused. “What?”  
Billy gestured at the jeans in Steve’s hands where he was still trying to yank them up over his quads. “Those jeans. They’re yours.”

Steve blinked at him, face blank. “And?”

“Well,” Billy must be able to tell that whatever had happened on the other end of the phone had caused Steve’s disorientation, because his voice came out more patient than Steve knew Billy was capable of. “Those are _your_ jeans, but you’re in _my_ body, so, I don’t think those are going to fit?” He turned his inflection up at the last moment, rounding the syllables into a question even though there wasn’t one as Billy retreated back towards the bed, sitting on the cover of the mattress with his palms held up in a placating motion to try and calm him. 

Steve shifted his blank gaze from Billy down to the pants in question, pulled taught against the base of Billy’s thicker thighs. The sight of it brought Steve back to the present, oddly grounding him with a little jolt of desire as Steve took in just how _thick_ Billy’s thighs really looked, the muscle and skin a wicked and welcome distraction. Steve could work with that, and he does, focusing on the smooth ridge of Billy’s quads as he took in a few deep breaths. 

The town had done this before, it could do it again. Steve could do it again. It was OK. 

“Ok,” Steve nodded, relenting, his face cracking into a softer expression, the tension ebbing a bit further as the feeling slinked slowly back into his limbs. “OK.” Given the distraction, Steve still couldn’t really take his eyes off Billy’s thighs though; he was mesmerized by the contrast of the deep tan against the blue fabric, how the tight denim stuck just past his knees. Steve had really never noticed just how much bigger Billy’s legs were. How _strong_. He groaned, the sound escaping _Billy’s throat_ in a low rumble in the air, before Steve chases it with, “You know, that’s actually really kinda hot.”

Billy coughed out his next breath of air from his careful perch on the bed, surprised. “Wait, what?”

Steve pealed the denim back down, reaching out for the pair of Billy’s sweats that he had come over in as Billy plucked them from the floor and tossed them to him. They would have to do. “Your legs,” Steve continued. Focusing on Billy was working to help calm him, Steve could feel the fringes of panic ebbing as he channeled the tension, reshaping it into something primal and distracting. “Never realized your quads where _this_ much bigger than mine. That’s really fucking hot. Now we _really_ need to figure out how to get ourselves switched back because I really want to know what it would be like to sink between these thick thighs of yours and feel them wrapped all around me. There’s so much muscle in these things that I bet you could grip on real tight. What do you say, you like a wild ride, Hargrove?” 

*  
Billy watched the succession of emotions play through Steve’s entire form in a fascinating oscillation between nervous panic and primal confidence, his energy sliding for a brief moment fully into the later as Steve stared, seemingly captivated, at *Billy’s thighs*. 

Billy cleared his throat to keep it from making any other sounds. Steve had asked him a question, and they both knew the answer was an enthusiastic _“yes,”_ but Billy still wasn’t comfortable with vocalizing just how much he wanted Steve when prompted out of nowhere—especially when Steve’s sudden weird mood was freaking him out, making the air bitter with a fearful anticipation that tasted too much like home. Billy knew danger and he knew fear. Something was happening and Steve wouldn’t tell him what. 

“We’re back to ‘Hargrove’ are we?” Billy said instead. He tried to keep the question teasing and light, but he wasn't sure it landed. 

Steve picked up on Billy’s reactionary tension and Billy watched as Steve visibly tried to relax his body language for Billy’s benefit, replacing the nervous ticks with a few steadying breaths as he advanced on him, confident. Billy had spent every hour with Tommy and Carol hearing all about Steve’s confidence, but seeing it this whole entire night was something else—was almost suffocating with how much it quickened his pulse, even now. Steve pry knew it too. 

“Over the last names, huh? Ok, _Hargrove_ ,” Steve murmured as he swooped in, leaning over Billy’s perch on the mattress, nuzzling his nose against Billy’s chin and Billy was gone. All odd, unknown threats temporarily forgotten. 

“ _Billy_ …,” Steve breathed out in a shiver against his neck, working his way up. 

“ _Baby_...,” Steve kissed his pulse point, a slow lick of tongue. 

“ _Sweetheart_ ,” he finished, teeth pressed lightly to the shell of Billy’s ear, using the rumble of *Billy’s* vocal chords to speak even lower, “Pick your poison.”

Billy swallowed, the sound distressingly audible. “I’m… flexible.”

Steve grinned around his teeth, “I noticed.”

“I’m going to regret resurrecting ‘The King’, aren’t I.” Billy doesn’t make it a question, because he knows it isn’t one. He’s already regretting it. A confident Steve Harrington was simply downright _dangerous_. 

“I’ve had no complaints in the past.” And yeah, Steve even had the balls to look at his fingernails as he says it. Billy rolled his eyes, even though Steve was probably right. That alone is enough for Billy to want to hit him again. Only confident mask or not, that nervous flutter still simmered right below the surface of Steve’s energy, and Billy knew part of Steve’s over-confident flirting was keeping Steve calm. Keeping them _both_ calm. And Billy wasn’t about to take that away from him. Not after everything Steve had done for him tonight. So Billy managed to bite down his more scathing retort, settling instead on a lighter sarcasm. 

“Yeah, well you never fucked _me_ , in the past.”

Steve pouted theatrically, and something in Billy’s pulse fluttered; yep, he was still so very fucked. 

“And I promise to make that up to you.” 

“Jesus.”

Steve opened his mouth, but Billy cut him off quickly. “NO. Don’t. I’m _not_ calling you ‘king’ when your cock isn’t inside me.” Billy was _pretty_ sure he sounded somewhat convincing on that, even though he also knew, or at least strongly suspected, that that would change the moment he got to experience the magnetic power of Steve from back inside his own body. That one look at Steve Harrington reassembled and complete with whatever this new, or old, version of himself was, would send Billy crashing to his knees, all pride be damned. 

Steve shrugged as he smiled tightly, the odd tension still curling in the air that Billy was at least starting to believe didn’t have anything to do with him--for once. But whatever had happened on the phone had shaken Steve to his core; something had shifted. Steve’s smile was just a little too tight, but still earnest when he agreed, “I can live with those terms.” He turned back toward the far wall, rooting around in the recesses of the closet as he yelled back, “Hey, do me a favor and grab the bat that’s under the bed. Careful, it’s sharp.”

Billy rolled off the bed to look under it, reaching for the wood handle, only to pull out some sort of Hellraiser looking monstrosity. He really should have spent more time going through Steve’s shit. Billy looked at the bat, at once a little uneasy and utterly surprised that _Steve Harrington_ of all people would have something so totally legit punk rock under his mattress. He was also kind of turned on by that, for whatever fucked up reason. 

“What the fuck? This was under your bed? _Why_ was this under your bed?” 

Steve grabbed a pre-packed bag out of the bottom of his closet that Billy also hadn’t noticed before, slinging it over his shoulder as he grabbed Billy’s hand to pull him towards the door behind him. He still looked alarmed, and yet Steve was more focused now than Billy had ever seen him before— hyper alert. 

“I’ll tell you in the car. Come on. We gotta get to Hopper’s cabin— _now_.”

Billy bristled at the clear, direct order. Even boys as pretty as Steve didn’t just get to tell him what to do. It was one thing to boss him around in bed. _That_ apparently Steve could do all he wanted to because Billy’s dick had completely missed the ‘no orders’ memo and most of Billy’s usual rules went right out the window whenever he was hard. But Steve was obviously still shaken. Billy knew his own body’s tells. He had seen fragments of his own reflection enough in his rear view mirror whenever a run-in with Neil left him thoroughly shaken but still able to sit up enough to drive away after. The way the muscle pulled tight at the corner of Steve’s eyes, complete with the facial tick set deep in the left side of his jaw that twitched at steady intervals, they were *Billy’s* tells. Steve was _scared_. Whatever it was was serious. Billy could tell that much. Serious enough to acquiesce without a fight. So Billy simply let Steve lead as he pulled him out into the night, the air dark and cold. 

There was nothing around Steve’s house but trees and sky and Billy looked upwards for a moment to take the expanse of it in--The black stretch of cold stars void of city light. 

When Billy looked back down he recoiled at the parked car’s proximity to the property line, that deep rooted instinct in him still warning him not to look directly at the trees. Steve had mentioned a “Hopper’s cabin.” Billy had no idea what a Hopper was, and he’d never been to an actual cabin. But he was pretty sure that cabins were located in the woods. 

Sure enough, Steve herded him into the car and turned left out of the drive, towards the lesser used access road up the hill that led away from the town. Billy felt a deep sinking unease settle in his gut. Whether it was his own instinct or some lingering one of Steve’s so deeply rooted that it remained in his bones to bleed through now, Billy didn’t know. All Billy knew was that the razor prick of warning was knocking, setting everything on edge as he watched Steve drive them past the turn off to the quarry to head deeper into the forest. His fingers-- _Steve’s_ fingers--long and lean as they were, twitched reflexively, curling tighter around the bat at his feet. Billy couldn’t help but notice how natural the movement felt. How the callouses on Steve’s palms aligned perfectly with the worn wood of the handle. 

It was then that it finally hit him. There were parts of Steve’s life that Billy had yet to know. Those missing pieces of the puzzle that Billy couldn’t seem to assemble without the picture on the box. Even now--especially now--that picture wasn’t getting any clearer. And for once, Billy wasn’t sure he really wanted to know. 

The lines of Steve’s back were rigid and straight as he drove. Billy watched the vein in his temple tick before Steve loosened his jaw, eyes still straight on the dark path of the road. “So, about that power plant,” Steve said evenly, eerily collected, like a recitation, a rehearsed confession. “The one we were at today. There are a few things you need to know. You’re not going to believe them. But you need to know them. And before you think I’m crazy, just remember where you are right now. Where _we_ are right now, and remember that stranger things have happened, ok?”

“Sure,” Billy said, because what else was he supposed to say to that? He waited for Steve to continue, heart rate creeping up his neck. 

“Turn on some music,” Steve said instead.

“What?”

“Put on one of your tapes,” Steve dropped his voice to a whisper, a murmur of wind through the trees. “Something with a mess of sound. I don’t think they would have bugged your car, since there was no reason to before. But better safe than overheard.”

“Yeah, sure. Ok, cool,” Billy agreed. Even though he knew it wasn’t. 

Steve nodded at him as White Snake filtered in through the speakers and he turned the Camaro deeper into the trees, past the public forest line. The dried red flakes on the bat still held in Billy’s hands looked a lot like blood, wine-dark as it was in the moonlight. “What do you know about monsters?” Steve started. He sounded serious. 

Billy looked over at him, assessing Steve's play as he swallowed the dry air, the taste metallic against his throat.

This couldn't be good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on Tumblr @ False-North :) !


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